


The Ghost of Le Fay House

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Character Death, Ghosts, Halloween Fiction, M/M, Minor Character Death, Romance, Spooky, Violence, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-12
Updated: 2018-02-16
Packaged: 2019-01-16 11:32:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 28,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12341838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Lieutenant Arthur Pendragon is wounded in action during the battle of Narvik. Rescued, he's sent to recover in requisitioned manor turned military hospital Le Fay House. His doctor, Merlin Emrys, is new at the job but quite hopeful of doing well... until strange happenings start to plague them both.





	1. Chapter 1

April 1940, Narvik, Norway. 

Knee-high snow covered the stretch of ground that went from their ditch to the crown of trees circling their position. Behind them rose a hut, all wooden, its roof sloping, its windows shattered by bullets, its door hanging open on hinges that squeaked in the high wind. 

The trees in front interlocked one with the other, their grey trunks standing in file. In between them shadows moved.

“The Germans are hiding in there,” said General Alvarr. “We must flush them out.”

Arthur pointed his rifle in the general direction of the German position. But he couldn't make out any single officer to plough down. Still, he'd been taught patience, so he sank lower in the ditch, elbows in the snow, and looked at the viewfinder. Everything was white. The ground, the tree bark, even the men moving about, both their people and the enemy, their camo gear as stark as snow.

Something moved, but Arthur didn't have the object locked. Chances were it was an animal rather than a German. And even if it was a German, odds were that Arthur would not have hit him. He bided his time. A figure crossed his field of vision. Arthur shot. The figure crumpled. There were shouts from the German line.

With his arm General Alvarr gave the order to advance.

Arthur left his perch in the ditch and started running, ducking shots, shooting himself, but without aiming. He cleared mounds of snow; he zigzagged towards the treeline. His breath ran fast; his feet were heavy as they moved through piles of sludge. 

Singing into the air, bullets whistled past him, before burying themselves in the frozen ground. Despite them, he made himself dash forwards. The tree line was getting closer and from where he was he could make out the German officers moving about. He could see the line of their weapons and the mesh covers that hid their positions. 

Trying not to think he was being shot at, Arthur advanced. He was close to the Germans. He could hear them speak. He could make out their shouted orders. Now at closer range, he was about to fire, when pain winded him. 

He moved forwards but only staggered a few paces before falling to the ground. He saw the sky, clouds moving across its expanse, the sun pale, a small disc creeping forwards. 

The medic's face loomed large over him. “Don't worry, Pendragon. I've got you.”

The pain came in waves. It ebbed and grew. Sometimes it winded him and put tears in his eyes. At other times it almost lifted, leaving him capable of breathing. Blood poured wetly down the line of his femur. It slithered down his calf, bathed his ankle. 

The medic did something with Arthur's leg, then stabbed him with a syringe. It hurt. He moved and then the ache became so intense he saw black.

“I have you, Pendragon,” the medic said, tying something around his thigh. “I have you.”

Arthur tried to blink, to regain vision out of the darkness, but he could see nothing but shadows. Even the voice of the medic talking to him and the sounds of the battle around him faded to nothing.

When Arthur came back to his senses, he realised he lay on a small berth, light ordinance covers on top of him, his right leg bandaged up to the thigh, his foot elevated on a cushion. His throat was dry, dusty, and his tongue clove to the roof of his mouth. His head ached too. It felt stuffed with wool, his thoughts hard to pin down. He asked himself how long he'd slept, how much time had passed since he had been wounded. He wondered how his fellow soldiers had fared; if the position had been taken, the Germans cleared. He had no idea who had transported him here. Based on the pitching and rolling, he deduced he was on a ship. What sort of ship it was and what destination it had remained unknown to him. 

He was trying to sit up, pulling his legs towards him, which unleashed a wave of pain, when a nurse entered the dormitory. She was small and dark-haired with tight curls and a dusting of freckles around her nose. She was wearing a Naval Nurse uniform, with a white smock covered by an apron across which a red cross ran. She stopped by a few other patients, then she got to Arthur's bedside. Her smile, when it came, was sunny and enlivening; but for the pain he was in Arthur would have tried to grin back. “Hello, I'm Nurse Gwen Thomas,” she said. “You're awake. That makes for a nice change.” She spoke in a soothing voice that had but a faint trace of a London accent. 

“Where am I?” Arthur asked, licking parched lips. “What happened to me?”

“You were wounded at Narvik,” she told him as she took his temperature. “You're now on board the HMHS Dorsetshire, a hospital ship, Lieutenant. You're in the best of hands.”

Though Arthur was glad to hear it, he still had no idea how he'd got here. “Who took me here?”

“You were lucky. They transported you on a resistance lorry. A Norwegian sailor ferried you over to us.”

“What happened at Narvik? Did we win?” Arthur followed her movements. 

She checked a clipboard. “You're supposed to recuperate. That's not talk for the sick bay.” She put his medical files back in place at the foot of the berth. “I'll get the doctor now. He'll check up on you.”

Before she could leave, Arthur said, “Wait, what's wrong with me?”

She stopped at the partition door. She looked at him with concern. He could tell she was moved. But she soon stiffened and answered, “I'm not at liberty to discuss patients. But the doctor will soon be round. You can ask him.”

She went and Arthur was left to worry over his condition. While he was in pain, he didn't feel so bad as when he had first been wounded. On the basis of that he tried to cheer himself up but he couldn't totally. Arthur wanted to go back to his unit. He needed to go back so he could do his duty. But he couldn't do that if he was stuck aboard a hospital ship, sailing God knew where. 

He told himself to calm down. He couldn't help his brigade if he panicked. If he wanted to go back to it, he had to let the doctors do their job. He would recuperate quickly. He always had. There was no reason to think it would be different this time. He just had to do as he was told, or appear to. He'd tell them he was better as soon as there was the slightest improvement. Even if it involved some little mystification of the truth. As soon as it was time, he'd tell his doctors he felt no more pain, no matter his true state. And then they'd send him back. With the war going on, they could scarcely hold him back. Every single unit was needed in the effort against the Nazis.

Knowing he had a plan, Arthur settled down. Whatever they'd given him made his drowsy so he napped a little. When he woke, an orderly had brought him supper. It was a light meal. Fish and boiled potatoes washed down by plain water that tasted like the tank it had been held in.

Once the orderly had done his rounds, a doctor arrived. He wore his naval doctor uniform and a stethoscope was around his neck. He had a tired air about him; his eyes were bloodshot and his face was drawn and pale. Even his moustache drooped. Like Nurse Thomas had done before him, he studied Arthur's chart before checking Arthur over. He inspected his bandages, felt the lymph nodes in his throat and took his pulse.

When Arthur felt he'd been fussed over enough, he asked, “What's wrong with me?”

“Lieutenant Pendragon, I see you're doing well overall.” He looked Arthur up and down as though to confirm himself in this opinion. “At least you're as in good health as a man who was punched holes in by the Germans can be.”

“When can I get back to my unit?” Arthur understood the pleasantries but they were not what he wanted to hear. 

“Lieutenant, you're not in a condition to,” the doctor said, adjusting his spectacles. “Your leg was drilled full of sub machine gun holes. I had to extract four Mauser HSc bullets out of it. Your knee is shattered, the head of your femur is fractured and the tibia shaft is as well. In two points.” He made a sign two with his hand. “You're lucky I didn't amputate.”

Arthur swallowed. 

“And you're not out of danger yet.” The doctor fixed Arthur with a reprimanding gaze. “The least sign of infection and--” When the doctor noticed Arthur cringing, he adjusted his words. “But if you stay put and do as your told there's a good chance you can keep the leg and do better.”

“What does this mean?” Arthur hadn't had time to parse this for meaning. Misgiving started to fill him, but he still couldn't believe it was as bad as all that. Surely there was a way out of this. A healthy regime would put him together in no time. “When will I be fine?”

“Look, lad, I'm not used to making prognoses so early,” the doctor said. “It's not that simple. You may return to active service in four months or you may be invalided out of the army.”

“Invalided out?” Arthur couldn't accept it. He had a war to fight, himself to prove, his fellow soldiers to stand by. He couldn't just sit it out like an old man. They had at least served in the Great War. What had he done? Fought for a few months, and then taken a bullet that saw him out of the conflict? The thought alone was unbearable. “I'm fine now.”

“You have a being given doses of morphine at intervals.” The doctor pointed to Arthur's chart. “That's why you're not feeling the whole brunt of your wounds. If you were off it, you'd be singing a different tune right now.”

“But I need to be out there.” He motioned with his arm, signalling the world outside. “I need to fight.”

At the end of the bed, the doctor patted Arthur's good leg. “The worst is over for you now. I'd concentrate on getting better.”

Arthur wanted to object; he needed to change the doctor's mind. This couldn't be the end of his war.

But the doctor had already left the sick bay and there was no one left Arthur could voice his grievances to. Before long lights were out too, so he couldn't even have addressed his fellow patients. Promising himself he would address his doubts to someone on the morrow, Arthur, heavy on drugs, fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

The station the train entered was made up by one single track with a platform on one side. Troughs of flowers hung outside the station master's office. Painted railings started at the corner of the red brick building housing it and rounded a small green area bordering the lane behind. The doors to the waiting rooms spilled outwards. Village women milled around with baskets on their arms. A child pushed off his toes to read the timetable affixed to a reading board. 

The train stopped. Merlin hoisted his canvas bag and descended. On the platform he met a young officer, an army sergeant. He was less than an inch shorter than Merlin with close cropped hair and big childlike eyes that shone vividly green even in the downcast day. “Captain Emrys, Sergeant Mordred Jones.” The Sergeant saluted, his body rigid as a plank. “I'm your pick-up.”

Merlin saluted back before switching back into an at ease position. “I could have walked.”

“Le Fey House is six miles from here,” Sergeant Jones said, trying to pick up Merlin's pack for him. When Merlin signalled that he would look after himself, the Sergeant shrugged. “General Ruadan thought it politic to save our new doctor the tramp.”

Merlin followed Jones out of the station and to a maroon Jeep parked outside it. The Sergeant sat behind the wheel while Merlin took the passenger seat, his canvas pack stashed between his feet. 

The village of Hutton came into view. Its core was made up of old thatched cottages, their front bay windows jutting out into the street, ringed by newer houses. A post office opened its doors to the public at one corner while a traditional pub dominated the other side of what had to be the main street. Several back lanes twisted upwards around the main road and led to the church. It had one spire and one small cemetery to the side, occupying the side of a hillock. Headstones cropped up at a slant.

Past the church the lane ribboned out into a country avenue, with green hedges on either side. As they drove on, a patchwork of fields and woods unrolled at their sides. Farms nestled in rich grassland surrounded by clusters of trees that shrouded them from view, while low hills and shallow river valleys succeeded each other. In the air there was a scent of ploughed earth and greenery. Cows lowed at pasture and sheep, Dorset horns it seemed like, dotted the high rearing ground.

“It's good they found a replacement so quickly,” Sergeant Jones said as he drove forwards, hands on the wheel, feet on the pedals. “I couldn't believe our luck.”

Merlin squinted against the afternoon sun. The day wasn't bright but its rays hit his eyes rather directly. “I'm sorry. I'm not sure I get it.”

“Oh, we had another doctor,” Mordred Jones said, lifting his chin. “Up at the big house. But he left two months after he was appointed.”

Merlin hadn't been told. He knew a position had opened up and while he'd have preferred to serve at the front, where he was more useful, he would welcome any opportunity to help. Wherever the army sent him was good for him. “I see.”

“Got sent to the front.” Sergeant Jones supplied the news with ease, not so much as if it were second hand gossip but as something Merlin was entitled to know. “I thought his job much more cushy here.”

“Perhaps he wanted to go to the front.” If Merlin had wanted to, there was no reason to think his predecessor had wished any different outcome for himself. They were soldiers. And though Merlin had been called up rather than volunteered, that had been his aim from the start. “Working behind lines, some feel, is not the same.”

“Well, it doesn't matter, does it?” Mordred Jones slowed down as the road narrowed in proximity to a set of tall black iron gates that were manned by two MPs. “We have you now.”

Le Fay House was a pile of ancient grey stone surrounded by dark mist sitting at the bottom of long gravel drive. It had a round colonnaded porch and large windows that overlooked the park. Lattices and corners crumpled in places and paint peeled away, marring the facade. Some windows lacked their glass panes and the servants entrance missed a door. In its early days it would have been a grand mansion, with its marble front and imposing bulk, but now it looked in severe need of repair. 

“I asked around,” Mordred Jones told him when he noticed Merlin's nose was up in the air. “The house has been requisitioned of course.” The Sergeant didn't need to point to the military personnel guarding its perimeter for Merlin to see that such was the case.“But it belongs to a Mrs Lothian. Though she was born here, she's always in London.”

Walking past a couple of MPs, Mordred escorted Merlin into the house. The hall must once have been grand. A marble staircase with carved mahogany banisters led up to the first floor. But the runner was gone and the statues that had stood in niches were darkened by age and missing limbs. Dust covered the chandelier that had hung over the structure and blackened it so that no light emanated from it.

Along the first floor corridor pictures must have hung, squares of paler paint showed in their place, but they were absent now, likely gone with the owner. The windows along the gallery were draped in black, the curtains filling in the breeze. Electrical lights flickered overhead, illuminating the passageway in their artificial orange glow.

Mordred Jones knocked on a solid oaken door. When he received a signal to open it, he did so, entered, stood to attention and saluted. “General Ruadan, sir.”

The General was a middle aged man with greying hair and a shave that was not so close. He had circles under his eyes and there were tension lines around his mouth. He sat at a desk, buried under piles of folders. He was signing a document, when he looked up.

Like Morded, Merlin saluted. “Captain Emrys reporting for duty, sir.”

The General waved Mordred away, who slinked off as quietly as a cat, and indicated Merlin sit in his chair. “I'm happy you joined us, Captain.”

“Glad to be of service, sir.”

The general put a folder by and opened another. “I don't want you to get a false impression of this place. We've been a week without a doctor and we have a hundred patients in need of one.”

“I see, sir.” Merlin knew his new position had been cut out for him. He didn't mean to complain or to stress how untenable the job was for him. He would work hard and make the whole structure ship shape. “I'll do my best.”

General Ruadan closed the folder he'd been perusing, and sprang to his feet. “Come with me. I'll show you round.”

Merlin followed him out of the office and up a staircase. Two corridors started off the central passageway, both running in opposite directions. They took the left one.

“We have three wards,” General Ruadan said, pointing to the doors opening on the corridor. “The Convalescence Unit. We use it for patients who are in for the long haul. The Recovery Unit we use for those who can be quickly put on their feet. The dying ones we put in Unit D.”

“Who does the triage?” Since their former doctor had gone before Merlin's arrival, it stood to reason to think that someone had performed those duties. 

“The nurses have been overworked the past week or so.” General Ruadan grunted the words.

Merlin wondered how they'd been running. A hospital, be it an army one, needed its staff. “It was a little hasty of my predecessor to leave before my arrival.”

“He wouldn't hear of staying.” Ruadan showed him into one of the wards. A stately room housed it. Eighteenth century paintings of noble people still clung to their wainscoting frames. But rows of gurney beds lined the once elegant salon. “The truth is he got attached to one of the patients, a very young soldier. The young chap died one night. Heart attack. Doctor Liddle had a nervous breakdown following his demise. He was declared unfit to work.”

If his predecessor had had a breakdown, then he probably wasn't to be trusted with his patients. They'd likely made the best choice possible regarding the hospital. “I'll do my best to pick up the slack, sir.”

General Ruadan took him to another ward. “I hope you'll start today.”

“I have every intention to.” He looked around, taking in the new unit. A huge fireplace whose mantle was crested in tones of black and gold dominated the room. It was unlit. Ash and dust settled in fire box and formed mounds at the base of the baseboards. The closest bed lay a few inches from it. “I'll start with ordering a thorough clean of the premise.”

 

“Doctor Liddle tried it,” General Ruadan said, escorting him back out after a tour of the ward, which had been dark and cramped with beds. “The nurses said that every time they cleaned it was dirty again within a couple of hours.”

It sounded like nonsense to Merlin. He'd have to take the staff in hand. He wouldn't be too harsh with them but he'd try to establish how importance cleanness was in a hospital. “I'll see to it, sir.”

“See that you do, Emrys,” the General stopped outside the unit. “I expect you to put this hospital to rights.”

“Sir.” Merlin clacked his boots together.

General Ruadan walked away at a parade pace.


	3. Chapter 3

The Dorsetshire docked in Liverpool. Those of the patients who were in good condition either went home or rejoined their regiments. Those who were still convalescing, like Arthur, were sent on to a sanatorium in London. Heavy air raids targeted the city, but the sanatorium got luckily exempt. A couple of buildings in its general area went down but it kept standing. 

Since Arthur's wound was no longer fresh, they tapered off his morphine. As the days went by, he received less and less. Because of this he felt the whole brunt of his injury in a way he hadn't up till now. Though he knew that he couldn't rely on drugs for his well being, he still regretted they had to go so early.

Nurse Thomas from the Dorchester was still with them. She had received orders to follow her patients on land till they were all stable. Every few days she would give Arthur his prescribed dose of meds and help him move around so that his muscles wouldn't atrophise from all the lying in bed that he did. 

“It's lucky you're not going to need me much longer,” Nurse Thomas said. “I'm sailing off on the Karoa.”

“I feel like I'm always going to need you.” Arthur used his crutches to cross half the length of the room. Once he would have had it in two strides. Nowadays he couldn't put weight on his bad leg. “It's hopeless.”

“You're doing great, Arthur.” Nurse Thomas helped him the last stretch of the way. “A short while ago you couldn't move on your own.”

“I'm not doing much of it now, am I?” Arthur wondered if he would always have a limp. If he would always need help to go about. It wasn't what he wanted. He wanted to be as fit as he had been and rejoin his comrades. It seemed like too much to ask and so little as well.

“You will be fine.” She squeezed his flank. “You have a bright future ahead of you, I'm sure.”

Two days after Nurse Thomas rejoined her ship and Arthur was left to regret her going and learn to shift for himself. Four days later the building next to theirs was bombed. Arthur had been sleeping when he'd heard the sirens go off and then the tremendous roar. They weren't even evacuated; it had all happened too quickly for that. But before many hours had passed they got their orders. All patients were to be transferred up north in the countryside, where they would be safe from attacks.

Two orderlies helped him onto an army van. He shared its back space with seven others patients. He lay on a gurney and the others did the same. Two young sergeants were on duty with them, sitting on a folding seat in the area left free by the stretchers.

The van proceeded slowly at first then more smoothly. The easy driving let off soon enough and after that they seemed to go over all the possible bumps in the road.

“Aren't you glad you're off to Yorkshire?” the first Sergeant said, his rifle between his legs, his helmet hanging askew on his head.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Overjoyed.”

“At least you're not going to be bombed every other day.” The second Sergeant saw fit to join the conversation. 

Arthur ought to have felt relief at that but he couldn't. He could only think about his shattered leg and how it was holding him back from rejoining the army.

“It's a stately place you're going to,” the second sergeant put in. “I'd gladly spend the war there.”

Arthur looked the other way. He couldn't tell where they were going. He could only feel it when the van hit a pothole or when it slowed down in proximity of towns and villages. They stopped at midday, opened the van doors, and a nurse distributed food. Arthur had a limited view of their surroundings but he could tell they were stationing on some sort of village green.

They arrived in the late afternoon and by then Arthur was one ball of aches. His leg hurt but then it always did, but adding to that, his back cramped and his muscles pulled. A sergeant and a nurse stretchered him out of the back of the van and helped him into a wheel chair. They were fiddling with the footplates when Arthur looked up.

Though it was spring the house was still wrapped in mist. It rose above banks of it, grey and dilapidated, big windows gaping like holes across its facade, darkness emanating from its doors. The facade was grand enough but there was a sense of mustiness about the place that made Arthur wish he could tell his escort to take him back to London, bombing notwithstanding. Instead he was wheeled inside and carted to the second floor. Refusing the nurse's help, he hauled himself into a bed.

“Welcome to Le Fay House,” said his neighbour. He was a slim-torsoed man with brown hair and a bandage round one of his eyes. “The dreariest place in England.”

Arthur had no hopes for the place either but didn't say so. “Arthur Pendragon.”

His neighbour shook the hand Arthur had presented. “Ranulf Allen. Pleasure.”

“Likewise.” Ranulf seemed like an affable chap though the place they were at wasn't of the jolliest. “Tell me, how do things work here?”

“There's not much to be said for this place,” Ranulf said. “The nurses make rounds thrice a day. In the morning, at around lunchtime and once again after dinner. Usually the doctor is there for an extra round or two, depending. But Doctor Liddle did a runner after he lost a patient.”

That seemed odd. Doctors were bound to lose patients sooner or later. Arthur suspected they'd grown used to the idea of it. Though he thought so he didn't express that consideration out loud. He didn't want to gossip. He only wanted to get out of here as soon as possible.

“Bedivere Greggs his name was.” Ranulf lowered his head as though the saying of the name warranted secrecy. “The patient's, not the doctor's.”

“Let's hope he's at peace now,” Arthur said, not knowing what to add when asked to comment on the passing of a person he didn't know.

“Didn't look like he died peacefully.” Ranulf's lips turned down. “You should have seen him. He had your bed. Don't worry; they changed the linens. I saw him. First thing in the morning, soon as I woke.”

Arthur wasn't cut out for small talk but he supposed Ranulf was the only one likely to be amicable to him in the near future. “Must have been a shock.”

“I've never seen an expression of such utter panic on a man's face before.” Ranulf shuddered visibly as though he wanted to shrug off the memory but couldn't. “It was a rictus of horror, with his features palsied in a grotesque mask. No wonder the poor chap's heart gave.”

Arthur was about to comment when three people entered the ward. It was two nurses and a doctor. The nurses wore spotless aprons and cap. The doctor had his army uniform on and white coat. Of the nurses one was middle aged and the other in her twenties. The doctor himself was in his early thirties with a shock of dark hair, laugh crinkles around his eyes, and, but for the soft mouth, rather sharp features. He stopped by each bed, taking in the patients' charts, checking them up, and exchanging a few words with them. Most patients seemed happy with their doctor's attentions, and smiled, and traded back some light banter.

When the doctor got to Arthur, Arthur stiffened.

As he'd done by the others, the doctor checked Arthur's chart. “I'm Captain Emrys, Lieutenant, the new doctor around here.” He studied Arthur's vitals. “I see you're stable.” He smiled as though the notion pleased him. “Feeling better today?”

Arthur couldn't say he felt any better than he'd done the previous week. While he'd got a little better, thanks mainly to Nurse Thomas, the improvement hadn't been anything to write home about. “When am I going to be out of here?”

The Captain's features softened into a look of understanding. “I hope soon.” He took a look at Arthur's plaster. “These things take a while to fix.” His expression darkened a little and one could tell his mental prognosis wasn't good. “But you must put your heart into it.”

Arthur snorted. He shouldn't have. The Captain meant well. Arthur could tell based on his voice and general demeanour. Besides he outranked Arthur. And you never showed attitude to a superior. It wasn't good for your career prospect and you could get punished too. While they couldn't order him to run laps till he dropped or to clean up the whole premises, they could invent something. Arthur decided to be as honest as he could with his doctor. Perhaps that would patch things up. “I want to get back to my unit.” War was not war if not fought on enemy lines. Honour necessitated it. “I want to fight by their side.”

The captain pursed his lips. “I understand that feeling, Lieutenant.” He bowed his head and his chest hollowed on an intake of breath. “But self sacrifice helps no one.”

Arthur said, “The army's thrived on self sacrifice. Time and again it's because of the self-denial of the common soldier that great feats have been performed.”

“That's true.” The Captain paused. “On occasion. It's also true that healthy soldiers help more. And that sick ones get to be a burden.”

Arthur's face set; the muscles in his cheeks pulled till they hurt. It was a kind of pain he welcomed. Indulged in. “I want to contribute to the war effort.” To the point he knew he'd be useless if he didn't. “It's important I do.”

The Captain looked at him with understanding shining in his eyes. “I get that. I understand completely. You're a soldier and you want to do your best by your country.” The Captain nodded. “But you should let your body rule. You should put your health first. And if you do, there's a chance you can go back to fighting.” The Captain's words slowed as if he wanted to impress their significance upon Arthur. “But if you didn't recover, you would only put yourself and others in danger and that's not helping anyone. You, your comrades or the war effort. That's why you should bide your time and make the most of your recovery. It'll be better for everyone in the long run.”

Arthur understood why the pep talk had been aimed his way, but he didn't think it'd make a difference to him. “Tell me, would you tell yourself the same thing if you were in my condition?”

The Captain looked at him long and hard. “Yes. Because I'd have to come to terms with the fact I wouldn't be helping the ones I hold dear. If you really want to do good by them, then you put them first.” 

Arthur's breath got punched out of him. He wanted to object, to denounce those words as cant, but in his heart of hearts he couldn't. Because he agreed with the Captain. He didn't know what to say though, how to let him win the argument, so he stayed silent.

The Captain smiled. Made to move on. “Food for thought, eh?” Then he continued on in his round, stopping by each bed with a word and a smile. Though most patients were dejected for obvious reasons, he managed to wrest a response out of them, a grin, a joke, a laugh. 

Unable to take his eyes off the man, Arthur watched the Captain as he completed his tour of the ward.


	4. Chapter 4

“Thank you for helping me cart up all the paperwork,” Merlin told Sergeant Jones, as he followed him up the stairs to the garret room he'd chosen for himself. He was as loaded as the Sergeant was but sharing lifting duties helped. “It would have taken me a lot longer to shift all my stuff up here.”

Sergeant Jones negotiated the last flight of stairs. “If you'll permit me, sir, I wonder why you chose this room.”

“My predecessor's was as cold as the grave.” Merlin had slept in there for one night and the experience had chilled the bones inside him. No matter how he cranked up the heater, he kept freezing. Getting more than one blanket had seemed out of the question when his patients fared with one. “I was hoping to do better.”

“But why the garret, sir?” Mordred cleared the stairs, and shifted the box he was carrying so that he could see where he was going. “I'm sure in a house as big as this there must have been more rooms to choose from.”

There had been of course. While the main chambers had been turned into wards and the General had the master bedroom, there was still plenty of choice. But this room called to him for some reason. Besides, it was out of the way enough for him to be able to sleep soundly in spite of all the traipsing going on in the lower floors. 

One handed, Merlin opened the door, a box full of files and folders still within his grasp. Sideways he slinked into the garret. It had a sloping roof and a set of windows facing the park. There was dust in the corners and the wall paper on the walls had different layers, some of them peeling off. Boxes and crates full of objects were lined up on one side but the centre was free of clutter. Some old furniture crammed one area. One single light bulb hung from the ceiling, dusty and cobwebbed. 

Sergeant Jones put down the box he'd been carrying. “I think, sir, that if we get a bed from downstairs and put it here and with some of that furniture over there spaced out, you could have a habitable place in little to no time.”

Merlin wanted to laugh. Sergeant Mordred Jones didn't seemed too convinced by his own words. Though, Merlin had noticed, he didn't say as much. “Yes.” He pushed at a rolled-up rug with his foot. “I think I'll be able to do something with it.”

Sergeant Jones inclined his head in agreement. “I can go down and fetch the last box for you.”

Merlin didn't want to overwork the poor Sergeant and he didn't want to act as though he was pulling rank. On the other hand he meant to shift some of the furniture that had been left in this space and that would be toil that he'd rather spare the Sergeant. “Thank you, much obliged.”

Mordred went rigid, looking in two minds as whether to salute or not. In the end he clacked boots and left.

Left to his own devices for the moment, Merlin put down his own box, then went and bustled in the furniture corner. Some chairs stood upended on the escritoire. Their padding was smashed in, netting and springs showing, but the desk was in fine condition, an antique likely, and Merlin could use it to work on. He put the chairs down one by one, lifting dust he blew at, then pushed the desk closer to the window. With the piece of furniture there, he'd have more light to see by. 

Being so close, he looked out the window. It was twilight and the park around Le Fey House was going grey. Mist swallowed it up, with the road leading to the gates continuing into nothingness. Of the statues that adorned the park only single limbs were visible, a leg, an arm, a stray foot. 

Wiping down the grime from the window, Merlin looked out. Thanks to the electric light, he could see both the outside reflected in the glass and the inside. His gaze traced the clutter in the corner, the boxes he'd brought in which where camping in the middle of the garret, and the edge of the desk to the side. 

He had just put his hand to the cool glass, when he saw a woman at the door. She had black hair gathered up in a bun out of which wavy locklets escaped, hollowed-in cheeks under sharp cheekbones, and eyes the colour of the sea. In the dying light of the day they shone, it seemed to him, malevolently. She was clad in black with a gown too ample to be that of a member of staff. 

Even so he said, “Is there anything I can do for you, Nurse?”

But the woman didn't move. She met his gaze in the mirror and kept staring. A chill descended over Merlin's bones, reached his marrow, and pierced his heart. So he could ask her to tell him what she was here for, he turned around and saw Jones in the doorway, bearing one of Merlin's boxes.

“Where shall I put this one?” Jones asked.

Merlin's mouth slowly opened. “Um, er.” He seemed to have lost the faculty of speech. “Yes, that'll be fine. Thank you, Sergeant.”

Jones put his load down and Merlin slowly turned around. He sought the image in the mirror again. For a second, a heartbeat, he thought he traced a gloomy smile in it, the shape of lips most certainly, but then he blinked and the form was gone. He must have dreamt it. Shaking off the notion he's seen something, he bent his thoughts towards more practical pursuits. “I'd better find myself a bed.


	5. Chapter 5

When the sun came down and the ward got darker, the nurses passed with their dinner and pills tray. They distributed the food and medicines among the patients and said a kind word to them. Though he wasn't in the mood for much conversation, Arthur thanked them as best he could. He ate slowly, picking at his food, and swallowed his painkillers with a lot of water. At ten the overhead lights were turned off, and conversation between patients got muffled. One by one they all dropped off, and Arthur was left alone with his thoughts. 

He mulled over the Captain's words. He reflected over their deeper meaning. It was true he couldn't do much for the war effort in the condition he was in. It was also true he couldn't go back to active service if he didn't make big improvements. He hoped he'd get better, but he also saw that he would have to accept the opposite happening. If he didn't, he'd have to find a way to live with it. Still, it wasn't easy. As much as he tried being rational with himself, he couldn't manage to achieve that level of detachment. He could see reason: he didn't want to act on it.

Knowing these thoughts weren't conducive to calm, Arthur resettled in bed, trying to find a comfortable spot in spite of his heavily bandaged leg. He had a hard time finding some respite, because the bed was cold and damp. In spite of the fireplaces that someone had set going, the whole of the house was utterly cold.

He attempted not to shiver, to relax, so he could at least drift off to sleep, but he couldn't manage. He lay on his back, his eyes kept vacantly on the ceiling. Mould stains extended in patches across portions of it and some of the plaster had come off and left darker ovals in its place. While the London sanatorium had been in a bombed area, it had felt far cleaner and more welcoming than this army hospital. He understood that there were a lot of war casualties and that the army had had to make to with what they had. These hospitals were improvised. They were nothing more that requisitioned manors, but they could have made more of an effort of it. There was just something about it, Arthur couldn't put his finger on it, that he didn't like. As accepting as he was of the short comings, he couldn't tell himself he enjoyed being here.

He wished he was back with his unit. On the latest mission the weather had been harsh, their prospects slim, the Germans hiding everywhere and not allowing them time to wind down, but they had shared jokes, hopes, objectives. Arthur had had an aim. He also thought of the time before the war. He remembered sitting in his garden, the last plums on the trees, and him sitting on a deck chair, his sleeves rolled up. A newspaper page had flown in and landed at his feet. It was a little crumpled but he could still make out the title. Hitler had invaded Poland; winds of war were blowing. Soon the peace and quiet he was enjoying would be a thing of the past. So he concentrated on enjoying the day, the warmth, the calm of his garden. He relaxed.

He blinked and saw he was somewhere different. He scoped the space, eyes big with shock. The ward he was in had gone. The row of beds had disappeared as had the medical equipment scattered across the unit. He was instead in a smaller chamber, a bedroom. A large bed camped at its centre, the linens silken, the covers rich. A woman lay in the bed, in white gossamery sheets. She was beautiful with dark hair falling in ringlets and green eyes. She looked pale, though with hollows in her cheeks, her skin sunken and pasty.

A man was at her bedside. His wig was powdered. He wore a coat that was full around the knee-length skirts and fell into folds over the backside of the hips over breeches buttoned at the middle of the leg. Stockings covered the calves while the feet were encased in shoes that had shiny buckles. 

Bathed by the glare of a taper, the man produced a small surgical knife. 

The woman extended her arm. Veins shone blue and green under her skin. The man put the knife to it.

Arthur knew this was bad. He was aware of the consequences, the terrible consequences that this action would have on this woman. His heart pounding, his mind reeling, Arthur shouted, “No, wait! No! You're hurting her.”

But he wasn't heard. His voice echoed off the walls but made no difference to the action going forward. The man cut the woman's arm. The cut was small, circumscribed, but blood welled red from it. 

“Is this going to make me better, Doctor?” the woman asked. She sounded tired, drained of all strength. But she still seemed to care about the answer. “Please tell me that it's all going to stop.”

“This is going to alleviate the imbalance in your humours,” the doctor answered. “I can't promise a result.” He made another cut, not quite deep, not quite shallow. Fresh blood trickled out in fast drops that ran down the woman's arm. “We can only try and curb your ailment with the use of science, my Lady.”

Arthur was sure this was wrong. He wanted to tell the people involved in the scene he was witnessing that this wasn't necessary. This wasn't how you cured illnesses. But as much as he tried, his voice stopped in his throat. Fear enveloped him. What was this? Why couldn't he make a difference? Why couldn't be heard? 

He tried to advance, move towards the woman, shift the objects that lay on his path, but his hands wouldn't connect with any material object.

The scene changed. The woman was still in bed but the doctor was gone. Her complexion was sallower now; she was thinner. Her hair arrayed around her like coils, like snakes on the white pillow, she slept. But her slumber wasn't peaceful. She murmured, she shook her head, and she whimpered like one of the damned.

An ominous feeling choking him, strangling his lungs, Arthur called out to her. Her haunted sleep couldn't be doing her any good. But again Arthur was voiceless, unable to communicate, to vent the increasing panic that sent his heart scurrying in his chest. 

Then the woman sat up and let out a blood-curdling scream, the oil lamp by her bed shattered in an explosion of glass. The bed hangings caught fire and the woman's eyes fired up so they appeared yellow in colour.

Arthur gasped and heaved himself bolt upright, breathing fast. He was in the ward, not the lady's bedroom, and around him were his fellow patients, sleeping in their beds. Arthur put a hand to his forehead, closed his eyes, breathed out. He attempted to shake off all of the impressions that had seeped into his consciousness from the dream. He sought to reassure himself of the unreality of it, trying to ground himself in the moment. As his breathing normalised, he felt better, ready to sink his teeth back into the commonplace. He was about to lie down again, when Ranulf said, “Had a nightmare, didn't you?” He cursed low under his breath. “It's those damned meds they give us.”

“Yes.” Arthur thought that as good an explanation as any. “I won't take any tomorrow.” Arthur had rather not repeat tonight's experience. “Good Night, Ranulf.”

As Arthur turned his head on the pillow, he hoped not to dream again.


	6. Chapter 6

Merlin had slept terribly. Though he had found a bed downstairs and carted it to the garret, and in spite of the mounds of pillows he'd stacked on it – more than his military allowance in any case – he had hardly caught a wink of sleep. At first it had been too cold, chilly breaths fanning along his face and limbs, then when he'd resurrected the heater, it had been a little better, but before long the room had sported freezing temperatures again. 

Sitting up in bed, he'd found the window panes frosted over. It seemed inexplicable. It was spring after all, but his surroundings had taken over a patina of winter. Barefoot, he'd padded over to the heater and put a hand on its surface. It was as cold as though Merlin hadn't activated it. He'd gone on hiss knees to check it was plugged in, and had seen a pair of yellow eyes glint from between the skirting board and the compliance.

With a gasp he had startled backwards, only to see a rat with a long tail scurry into a hole in the wall. With a hand on his heart, he'd said, “This place needs a thorough clean up.”

He'd gone back to bed, his back to the window, his face to the wall. And then he had started hearing sounds. They were creaking sounds, slow, but rather rhythmical. Merlin had just figured out the pattern in them when they'd ceased. Though they had echoed outwards, they had been coming from inside his room, he'd been certain. Before they could wake all the household, Merlin had gone exploring so that he could find the source and put it out. But as soon as he'd started investigating, the noise had stopped. 

So Merlin had gone to bed again, but slept as fitfully as it was possible. So now he still felt as tired as though he had enjoyed no repose at all. At least the room wasn't as cold as it had been and the hoar frost sticking to the window panes had receded. Though he wished he could rest some more, Merlin was up and about by half past six and before long he was in the mess room for breakfast.

The mess room was populated by officers and nurses, all of them busy eating. The food at Le Fay House wasn't anything to write home about. Merlin's scrambled eggs were rather sticky and his beans on toast a notch too gluey, but he ate nonetheless. He was halfway through his plate, when Sergeant Jones came up to him. 

“Sir, we have a problem with one of the nurses,” the Sergeant said. “She needs medical attention.”

“I'll be right there with you.” Merlin put aside his breakfast. Nurses often handled needles as well as rather dangerous substances. He could see how one was in need of his help. “Explain what happened.”

The Sergeant went rigid. He looked around as though by so doing he would find someone ready to supply him with a ready answer. But although a lot of officers went to and fro and the same was true for nurses, nobody stopped by to help him out. “It's a little tricky, sir. It's better if Sefa tells you herself.”

They found Sefa on the stairs by the old servants entrance. She was cradling her wrist in her hands and sobbing audibly.

Merlin's first thought was that she had sprained it while working, but he didn't want to assume. It was bad of doctors to. The patient ought to speak and tell what was the matter with them. “Hello, Sefa. They tell me that there's something wrong with you today.”

Sefa looked up at him out of wide, terrified eyes. There were still tears in them, fat ones that threatened to spill along ready tracks again. “I saw something horrible. She-- she wanted me dead.”

Merlin wasn't sure he understood. If it was a question of rivalry between nurses, even bad blood, he didn't see why they had called him to her. The Matron was responsible. “Who wanted you dead, Sefa? You can't say things like that and not explain.”

Sefa sobbed but then nodded. “The woman. The woman in the well.”

Sergeant Jones sought eye contact, as if to say 'I told you so'. Merlin ignored him and went on his knees so he could be level with the young nurse. “Sefa, what you're saying is a little disjointed, could you be more specific?”

Sefa breathed in and out. “I had sheets to clean. I tried the sinks in the old servants' quarters. I thought no one would be using them.” She gulped saliva down. “But no water was running. So I remembered the well. It might work, I told myself. I went out to it. It was so early it was still dark and cold to booth, but I made myself do. Those sheets needed washing.” She moved her head up and down, confirming herself in the notion. “I put the pail down and started lowering it, when--”

“When--” Merlin was getting nervous himself.

“When I saw a face in the well,” Sefa said with all the force of her conviction. “A woman's face, angry and malignant.”

Merlin looked to the Sergeant, who shrugged his shoulders. “No one had fallen in the well, sir.”

“You didn't see her.” Sefa snapped the words at the lieutenant. “But she was there. I started back, but she grabbed me. She grabbed me by the wrists.”

“Someone grabbed you?” Merlin had to admit the injuries on her were consistent with her tale. 

“Yes, she wouldn't let go.” Sefa stopped cradling her wrists, the bruises by now wider and plum coloured, and grabbed him by the sleeves. “Please, you've got to believe me.”

Though there was no reason to, he did. She was too scared to be inventing such crazy stories. “All right, I believe you. I do.”

Sefa seemed to relax at that. She started shaking less and her gaze became less haunted. “See, I couldn't see her hands but her grip on mine was deadly. I know she wanted to pull me in. That's when I started screaming.”

“I happened to be about, sir,” Sergeant Mordred Jones said. “I rushed towards her.”

“Could you see anything?” Merlin didn't know how to formulate the question at all. Defining matters seemed to give them a strange twist. If he were to repeat the words to himself, he wouldn't believe them. “In the well?”

“No sir.” The Sergeant shook his head. “Only moss and brackish water.”

Merlin stood looking around. He could see the well in the distance, could make out the raven tiptoeing on its rim. He would go and check it out, but before he did he'd prescribe a pomade for the bruising on the nurse's wrist and a few herbs to calm her down. Several hours of sleep would do her good as well. Taking a note pad out of his pocket, Merlin pencilled in his prescription and gave it to her. “The head nurse will no doubt help you find your medicines.”

Sefa took the piece of paper in her trembling hands. She rose to her feet and pocketed it. “What about the well? Are you looking into it? You must do something about it, about the woman.”

Merlin took Sefa's hands in his and said, “I promise.”

When Sefa and Jones were gone, Merlin went to explore the well. It stood a few yards off the kitchen garden in the middle of rather too tall grass. It was made of stone and two columns supported a slanted wooden roof. Beside the well stood a metal bucket with hemp rope tied to its handle. Going by the length of the rope, the well was deep. 

Leaning over, Merlin looked into its depths. He couldn't see the bottom but he could see deep down water shining and slippery stones covered in moss. It was dark and no shaft of sunlight permeated. If there had been, maybe he could make out more. Of course no woman hid within its depths. Neither were there animal carcasses inside. Still, it stank. He didn't think the water in it should be used for any purpose, either drinking or washing.

He would have to remember to put out a general warning so that nobody would use this water. Though he could find no source for it, it was likely polluted. 

He turned away, aiming for the house, when he heard a sigh, long and breathy. He pivoted on his feet so he was facing the well once again, but could see that no one had approached it. Shaking his head he made it back to the mansion.

Like the day before he made the round of his patients. Over all they were doing well. Some complained of sleep issues, and some hated the food, but no one was dying on him, so Merlin called himself content. He had just finished and was about to go for lunch, when Sergeant Jones told him the general wanted a word with him.

A little worried over what the General might say about his actions ever since he'd taken the job of medical officer, Merlin took the stairs two at time. By the time he'd got to his superior's office door, he was more than a little winded so he stopped to look out the window that opened on the landing. A van was disgorging new patients, around whom nurses were flocking. They escorted the wounded inside. “At least the hospital works like clockwork,” Merlin told himself.

Having knocked, Merlin entered the General's office. “Sir.” He saluted.

“At ease, Emrys,” the General said, as he moved away from the cabinet he'd been extracting files from.

Merlin let his feet move apart and his shoulders bend. “Was there a reason you wanted me, Sir?”

“Indeed there was.” The general took a seat at his desk, putting the paperwork he'd moved from the cabinet into a pile at his side. “The nurses are all aflutter.”

“Aflutter, sir?” That he knew of, the nurses had all been steady and professional. The two who had accompanied him during his round had been particularly praiseworthy. “I don't think I understand.”

“You wrote one of the nurses a prescription earlier today.” The General arched an eyebrow. 

“Yes, anti bruising cream and some mild sedative.” Merlin had nothing to hide.

“You gave her a prescription for an imaginary ailment and now most of the nurses think the well is cursed.” The General's tone was dry and pointed. 

“The bruises were real enough.” Merlin had seen them with his own eyes and was ready to testify as to their width. “And she was honestly frightened, hence the sedatives.”

“By giving her medicines you give credence to her ailment,” the General said. “You're letting people believe that what she saw was true.”

Merlin could see why the General wasn't a doctor. “I wasn't treating anything other than her complaints. She had a bruise. I could see it. She was in shock, whatever the cause. I'm not alleging the well is cursed.”

“You might as well have!” The General stood. “Giving credence to her tattle. She's an hysterical woman and that's what her nonsense is all about.”

The pictures hanging on the wall, mostly of a military nature, crashed down on the floor, the glass encasing them shattering in a thousand pieces.

The General looked in consternation at the shambles. “Well, I'll have a private pick it all up.” He turned his gaze on Merlin. “As for you, make sure you reassure the staff as to the absence of all curses.”

That was an order, not a suggestion, and Merlin took it as such. His body straightened into the line of salute. “Sir.”


	7. Chapter 7

The nurses had come down with the medicines they were supposed to take. Reminiscent of the effect they'd had on him, Arthur pretended to swallow them and when the nurses had cleared, he pushed off his blankets and grabbed at his crutches.

“Where are you off to?” Ranulf asked, his eyebrow pushing upwards as he saw Arthur negotiate standing up. “I don't think you've permission to go anywhere.”

“I'm off to find our doctor.” Arthur was trying his weight on the crutches. He was glad he'd practiced walking with their aid when he was with Nurse Thomas. The result wasn't perfect and he didn't feel at all stable, but he could make do. “We should talk to him about our meds.”

“Can't it wait until tomorrow?” Ranulf sat up as though in two minds as whether to get up and stop Arthur. “I'm sure that patience is a virtue.”

“Is it on the battlefield?”

Ranulf conceded with a shrug.

Arthur had heard the nurses talk during their round. They'd been commenting about how strange it was for the new doctor to have taken up abode in the garret when he could have had more comfortable chambers downstairs. While Arthur didn't know where the garret was exactly, he felt sure he'd have to climb upstairs.

The hospital was dark at night. The ward was unlit, so Arthur had to advance past rows of beds in a darkened ambience. Every corner was wrapped in shadows but crawled with subdued life. Unlike the ward, the passage was lit by the feeble light of a few bulbs. It flickered and gave way to patches of darkness. They seemed treacherous, oozed danger. 

Arthur avoided them; he was already ailing. He didn't want to break more bones than were already shattered. He had a feeling that if he roamed the darkness in this place, that would happen, or something equally bad.

Avoiding the nurses was also necessary. If they sighted him, they'd send him back to his bed. That was not what he wanted. He wanted to talk to their doctor; he wanted to have an active role in his recovery. 

So when two of the nurses passed, Arthur flatted himself against the wall, behind a door. He didn't like being enveloped in these shades. In the shadows it was colder. The air was tenser, crackling with something that was almost a touch. Cold draughts touched his skin, like breathing on his neck. By the time the nurses had gone, Arthur's skin had pebbled for no reason. 

Telling himself he should have brought a cardigan with him, he proceeded towards the stairs. Making his way up was a slow and laborious process. He had to lean against the banisters and use one of the crutches, while still holding on to the remaining crutch. When he got up the first flight he was out of breath and by the time he had made it up the second narrower flight up, his upper arms ached with the strain of balancing his whole body.

The stairs up here were dusty and cobwebs beaded the wooden architraves. A feeble light coming from a sconce trembled, illuminating the landing in an on and off manner. Wary of tripping, Arthur looked down, watching the shadows move and form into intricate shapes. If he hadn't known better he'd have said they came in the form of owls and bats, rats and snakes. Of course it was just a combination of light and darkness merging and playing tricks on him, but he still was spooked.

When he got to the door, he knocked. As he waited, he felt once again currents play on his neck, but he didn't heed them.

The door opened. At this time of night, the Captain wasn't in full uniform. He wore the trousers, but had only a plain white shirt on. It was conscientiously tucked, a pair of braces keeping it in place. Likely freshly showered, his hair was damp, glistening with water drops. When he made out Arthur holding on to his crutches for dear life, his eyes widened. “Lieutenant Pendragon, right?” The Captain opened the door wider, making room for him. “What can I do for you?”

Arthur hobbled inside. As he did, he felt some air pass him, as though someone had moved right past him. That, of course, was nonsense. The door creaked shut and Arthur turned on his crutches. He had a look around and saw the boxes that littered the room. Some seemed to contain medical files; others much older, yellowed paperwork and books that looked as though they had been printed in the last century, full of Gothic script and bound by heavy leather bindings. Taking his eyes off the stuff, Arthur centred his gaze on the Captain.

“I want to talk to you about our medication.”

The Captain's brow creased, little lines crossing it. “Your medication.”

“Specifically, the sleep medication you give us.” Arthur drove his crutches into the floor, leaning his entire weight on them. “It gives us nightmares.”

“Nightmares?” The Captain waved Arthur into the closest armchair. “What we're giving you is a very mild dose of barbiturates. And while it's true that they may cause hallucinatory episodes, that's only in rare cases. And you're talking about nightmares, not hallucinations. That's something rather different.”

“They're very vivid.” Arthur sat down on the armchair. It creaked and coughed up dust. “They also feel very real.” Arthur had never experienced any that came across as quite so true to life, so detailed and lucid. He had been there for the duration of the dream and it had been like living out a chunk of someone else's life. Though nothing gruesome had happened in his dream, no one had died, and only a little blood had been shed, he'd been left with a sensation of panic worked deep in his guts. He'd awoken breathless and terrified. “Very impressionistic.”

The Captain munched on his lips thoughtfully. “That's not what the medicine I gave you does. Not at all. But if you're unhappy with it, having adverse reactions, you can choose not to take it. I won't be the one to force your hand.”

“I've already stopped taking them,” Arthur said, showing the Captain the pill he hadn't ingested. 

The Captain gave him a deadpan, rather surprised look, then his lips quivered, forming into a wide smile that gave way to laughter and made his eyes dance. In that moment the Captain looked less like an army officer and more like a young carefree man. There was a light that both the army and the war snuffed out in men, but the doctor seemed to have retained. It wasn't always there. It wasn't present when he was on his rounds, or when he was trying to be professional, but it was out full force now. 

Arthur liked the idea of it. He preferred this version of the man to the scrupulous doctor he'd encountered before.

The Captain said, “Glad to see you don't beat around the bush.”

“Never.” Arthur felt like smiling back. “I'm decisive. That's why I'm so suited to the military.”

“I have a feeling you were one of those who volunteered,” the Captain said. “As soon as the war broke out.”

In spite of the crutches, Arthur did his best to stick his chest out. “Of course I did. It was my duty by my country.”

The Captain beamed at him. “I knew it.”

“I assume you didn't?” The Captain seemed like a good sort, perceptive, and understanding. Arthur liked that about him. He had made no fuss about the changing of his prescription or Arthur taking his health in his own hands. And surely medical officers served just as much as Arthur had ever done. Without them many more people would be dead by now. But still he thought every man's duty was enrolling when the country needed it. He couldn't understand how Captain Emrys had refrained. “Why?”

“When the war started--” The Captain got a far away look in his eyes as though he was remembering how it had been. “I'd just got my degree. I was starting a practice and it was meant to be the beginning of my career. At that time some of my friends were avoiding conscription while others, like you, were signing up of their own volition.” He got a breath and when he spoke again it was in a thoughtful tone, an intimate one. “Before taking action, I considered the situation from every angle. I decided I was saving lives in my day to day job. That I was sparing people a lot of suffering going on with my practice. So I chose not to join. Eventually, of course, I was called up. But I don't think I did anything less than my duty before that.”

Arthur had never looked at it the same way, but Captain Emrys was right. As a doctor he saved lives no matter where he was, whether in a tent off the battlefield, or in his private surgery at home. Given that he'd implied a lack of courage on the Captain's part, Arthur blushed. “I'm sorry if I gave the wrong impressions.” With his enthusiasm for Queen and country Arthur sometimes did. “If I sounded as though--”

“You'd just called me a coward?” The Captain shrugged, a small smile still etched on his lips. “You weren't the first.”

“But you aren't.” How could the Captain put up with the insinuation? Arthur would have been furious if someone had hinted at his lack of courage. He'd would have done his best to prove the contrary was true. “Saving your patients mattered just as much as being one more field doctor.”

“I'm glad you see it that way.” The Captain looked it too. There was a pleased air about him. There was nothing of vanity in it but some pride. “I know how much you believe in the value of serving, so your words mean a lot.”

Could he have had that much impact, Arthur wondered. “Do they?”

“Yes, they do.” The Captain flushed a notch.

Arthur didn't know what to say or do. He'd got what he'd come for. He wouldn't be using the meds that gave him nightmares anymore and he'd forged some basic understanding with his doctor. The time had come for him to go. But he still felt something was missing, that he had something to say. “Thanks for listening to me.” Arthur believed that was the Captain's due. “Another man might have shut me down.”

The Captain said, “Listening to patients is a doctor's duty.”

Knowing that the conversation had to wind to an end, Arthur replied, “Nevertheless.”

As though sensing Arthur was by now tired of standing on crutches, the Captain helped Arthur to the door. His hand alighted on Arthur's side, warm and steady, the doctor's body close to Arthur's as he steered him forwards. He opened the door himself. “Will you be alright walking back to the ward?” Concern shone in the Captain's eyes. “I can escort you downstairs.” He straightened, coughing into his fist.

Arthur was warmed by the offer; was almost tempted to prolong the moment and accept. But he had been taught self reliance since he was a kid and he knew in his heart that he could manage well by himself. Would it be easier and more pleasant if the Captain helped? Surely. But Arthur had to be self-sufficient; he could allow himself no concessions. “Good night, Captain.”


	8. Chapter 8

Once the Lieutenant was gone, Merlin found himself alone. He was sorry he didn't have company anymore. Lieutenant Pendragon sounded like an compelling man, one with one it would be interesting to converse. Perhaps it wouldn't be exactly easy to talk to him. The man seemed very fond of some of his opinions, but he was still open to discussion, still capable of being persuaded away from some of them. It was a quality that Merlin appreciated in people. 

Since he wasn't sleepy and it wasn't all that late, Merlin resumed doing what he had been at before Lieutenant Pendragon put a pause to his trafficking. He had found some boxes in his garret, which had lain there for God alone knew how long. Some contained books and some old paperwork pertaining to the property.

Merlin found an old copy of _Tale of Two Cities_ , which he'd already read when he was younger, a Burke essay, which he had no intention to try before bed, and Maria Edgweworth's _Belinda_ , which was not his favourite kind of literature. At the bottom of the box he also unearthed a leather bound tome. When Merlin opened it, he saw that the volume was entirely handwritten. The first words read: Morgana Le Fay, Le Fay Manor, 5 April, 1715.

Intrigued, Merlin picked up the book and shifted his seat, moving it closer to the window for some additional light. Thanks to the moonlight he could in fact read the words better. He couldn't make them out easily because of the old fashioned style of the lettering, but he could slowly decipher the words.

He was about to lend his attention to the first page, when the wind blew the volume shut. What the hell. Merlin studied the window frame, the panes were firmly closed; no wind could gust through. That was strange. Maybe it had been the draft. Opening the book again, Merlin began to read.

_Tonight no sleep came, once again. I'm too afraid to close my eyes and go under, surrender those powerful instincts that the wakeful mind can resort to to keep the hounds at bay. It's affecting my health, of course; everyone can see it. Uncle Gorlois notices when he comes and my maids remark on it. Naturally they don't say I look haunted and frail, almost ugly in my pallor, but I can tell from their faces, from their whisperings, that that's what they think. Even their compliments fall short. I don't ask for any of them and their words belie their meaning._

_Today I'm expecting Doctor Gregson again. I have no trust in him, I must admit. At first I believed his promises. His manner was too ingratiating, too conciliating, but I thought he could perform his duties. But though he pricked and prodded me, though he bled me and used leeches on me, my ailment didn't improve._

_My nightmares kept feeling as real as everyday events. They kept on revealing hints as to future, continued to predict it in the most unforeseen of ways. As much as I tried to shut them out, they haunted me. As much as I tried to use my knowledge to help people, I failed, and in failing, attracted all sorts of negative attention to myself._

_I heard the maids speak behind my back. I was aware of the kitchen staff's comments. Before long the news of my oddity spread to the village. It was inevitable with half the servants coming from peasant stock._

_Gossip was like wildfire; it sparked everywhere, from household to household. I noticed the looks that passed between traders and shopkeepers, between matrons and girls. Whispers came in their wake and now even labourers walked on the other side of the street when my carriage rolled by. They lowered their hats on their heads, and continued on without acknowledging me. They showed me no sign of respect._

_This happens all the time. I'm a perennial witness to these slights. I told myself that if I didn't dream, then all of this would stop. I wouldn't be any different from the next person. I wouldn't know. I wouldn't be afraid of the future. But dreams come to those who sleep. So I've been guarding vigilantly against slumber. The first few days it came about easily. My enthusiasm for my new, nightmare-free existence kept me up. But now it's so hard, I don't know how I'll keep up._

_May God, if I can still pray to him, help me._

Needing to read further, Merlin was about to turn the page, when one of the candles that he'd left on the window sills sparked alight, the flame catching at the curtains. Merlin dropped the book and rushed over, wrenching the curtain down and stepping all over it to quench the fire. By the time it was quelled, Merlin was breathing hard. Old houses like this one were a danger when it came to this type of accident. He'd have to be more watchful in future.

Feeling done in for the day, Merlin put the diary away and himself to bed. He had just pulled the covers on top of him, when a voice whispered in his ear. 

Merlin sat up in bed.


	9. Chapter 9

Having propped his crutches against the wall, Arthur sat on his bed. He slowly worked his legs on it and then placed his injured leg on a cushion. Head on the pillow he swiftly fell asleep.

He was in a church, at the back of it. The walls were of stone but the flooring and ceiling were wooden. He could see the pews and parallel to them the stone altar covered in white cloth. It was full of people, the congregation clothed in the garb of days gone by, the ladies in large petticoats, the men in breeches and tails. They all looked to be wearing their Sunday best, in mauve and scarlets and deep blues.

With a creak of the door a woman entered. Arthur knew her. She was the woman from his dream, the one who had lain in the bed to be bled. She didn't look much better now. Though her features were beautiful, she appeared pale and strained, with dark circles under her eyes and a cadaverous complexion. 

She moved slowly but with purpose, fatigue etching her face. With a few bold steps she was in her pew, which lay in the first row. Church goers stared at her, made the sign of the cross, murmured around her, raising a cloud of whispers.

The priest appeared and started a benediction. 

Arthur felt his words burn down his body. Unease gripped him tight. Sweat broke on his brow and body and he trembled deeply. Though he was wounded, he could move easily. He took a few steps and walked all the way to the altar. 

The priest didn't see him and neither did his parishioners. The woman in the pew seemed to see him for a moment for she startled, but then she settled down and seemed not to notice him again, not to be aware of his presence at all.

The priest spoke on, and read from the Bible. The longer he went on, the more Arthur's unease grew. A sense of profound disquiet settled over him.

He watched the dark-eyed lady but for the most part she held her head down and her book of prayer open. This didn't stop the flock from watching her, from talking about her. Though they did it in low voice,s it was plain to hear. Sometimes even the words could be made out. _Evil. Immodest. Black-hearted._

The lady in the pew acted as though she couldn't hear the words. She kept her head held high and her hands in her lap. But her facial muscles contracted, cramped. So Arthur knew she'd heard. 

The congregation opened the hymnal and they started singing, some ladies louder than others, the music crescendoing as moments passed. 

Arthur felt like it lay a pall on him; as though the sound oppressed him, and made him unable to breathe. Remembering he was wearing his hospital pyjamas He adjusted the fabric at his collar. 

The lady in the pew seemed to be reacting the same way. Her hand was at her throat; sweat covered her face. And then her eyes fired, glowing gold in the early morning light. The altar cloth caught fire, flaming brightly, enveloping the chalice in a cloud of smoke.

The priest hugged his Bible. The church goers started shouting, making for the doors. 

“Witch.” A man pointed at the lady in the pew, whose eyes were still glowing. “Witch, this is all your fault.”

The lady in the pew left the church without running, her pace as solemn as though she was taking part in a ritual.

Arthur woke panting. He wasn't in a country church; there was no fire. No parishioners were pointing accusing fingers at any lady. He was in the ward, in his bed, the unit plunged in the darkness of night time. 

And then a face appeared right in front of his, eyes wide, stringy hair pushing down from her scalp, tear tracks on her pale face.

Arthur started, the fear of god in his heart.


	10. Chapter 10

Merlin woke with the sun. He had slept fitfully and badly, but he was still due for his eight o'clock round. Once he'd washed and shaved and was back in his uniform, he went to the canteen for a dose of coffee and a few sweet buns, then he started on his tour of the wards. There were fresh patients in them. Some were in a manageable condition and would get better in time. Others were at death's doors and Merlin and his staff could only ease their passing.

Those cases were the toughest pills to swallow. Merlin had become a doctor to help people, not to watch them die, and though death was certainly part of the life process accepting failures or one's own inability to act was tough to come to grips with.

Merlin was in Unit D, walking by the beds of the hopeless patients, when he stopped by the bed of one. The man was staring at the end of the room, but his gaze wasn't lost or vacant. It was rather focused as though there were an object to pour one's attention on. Merlin followed the patient's line of sight. The corner was empty.

Unsettled, Merlin moved towards him. He read his chart, smiled, and said, “How are you doing today, Lance Corporal?”

“You know I'm not well, Captain.” The Lance Corporal coughed into a handkerchief. There was blood in it. “But I've accepted it.”

Merlin didn't say anything. While comfort was important, he didn't want to lie to his patients. This one in particular didn't have long to live. Telling him he'd be all right would be morally wrong and he would be caught in the lie too, for his patient was, as he'd just shown, well aware of what was about to happen to him. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The Lance Corporal looked past Merlin. “You can make her go away.”

Merlin's gaze fell on the nurse that was attending the patient in the bed next to the Lance Corporal's. “She's doing her job.”

The Lance Corporal glanced askance. “I don't mean her.” He shifted his gaze to a point behind Merlin again. “I mean her.”

Merlin turned his head round. There was no one behind him, not a nurse, not an orderly, no one, just a window and a spot of white wall. Realising his patient must be raving, Merlin decided to go easy on him. “I see, well, why don't you just look elsewhere?” That seemed the most feasible suggestion; the patient would calm down and Merlin's unease would decrease. “Why don't you look at those nice flowers or the kind nurse?”

“Because she's looking at me.” The patient made a sound in his throat and in his chest. It was no longer coughing; it was a loud spasm. “She won't-- she won't take her eyes off me.”

The hair on Merlin's nape stood on end. He knew he shouldn't give credence to his patient's hallucinations; he new that death bed visions weren't rare, but he looked in the direction indicated all the same. As was obvious, he saw nothing different from before. A stretch of white plaster, an open window reflecting the view outside, the trees, the sky and a tiny figure. Merlin zeroed in on it and the reflection became clearer. It was that of a woman, black dressed and dark of countenance, watching palely out of the glass. 

Startling backwards, Merlin gasped. He tried to trace the image in reality, but the room was only full of staff. There was no one who didn't belong. He blinked and looked to the window again. The reflection was gone. There was nothing but a tiny speck of dirt on the window; otherwise its surface only cast back at him images coming from outside and that he could see just as easily as he could make out the beds and wash stands, the carts and drip stands.

“I know you can't see her,” the Lance Corporal said in a weary, other-worldly voice. “Nobody else here can. I mean I think perhaps Madox could.” He passed a hand over his brow; the hand was pale and the nails yellow, a little damaged. “Just before he died, he looked so scared. I could tell something was wrong. I asked. He didn't answer. But I knew he'd seen her because he kept peering over the edge of his bed, his eyes wide. And since I could see her; I was sure he must be able to as well.”

Merlin knew this had to be nonsense, nothing but the delirium of a man about to die, but he sounded so sure and so reasonable about it. “See her?”

The Lance Corporal made a tiny motion with his head, as if moving more was beyond his abilities. “She's frowning at me right now; making a sign with her hand.”

“Is she?” Merlin couldn't see her and a substantial part of him didn't believe anyone was there. But there was another part of him – the one that feared and dreaded – that was ready to be persuaded, a side of him that cringed at the notion of what might be there. He should be wise and not heed that irrational little voice inhabiting his brain: he should not probe or ask further. He should close off that line of talk, but he couldn't.

“Yes, there's a smirk on her lips now,” the Lance Corporal said. “It's a cruel curl, twisted. She's beckoning me, I can tell.” He tore his gaze off and away from the corner of the room, lifting it to Merlin. “Captain, I'm fine with death.” His body shook as he said it. “I'm a soldier and can accept it.” His hand curled around the edge of the mattress. “But I don't want to go where she is. Please, Captain...” He was racked by tremors. “Please, make her go away.”

Merlin took his hand in his; the patient's grip was tighter than he had thought possible. “If you chose not to look perhaps...”

“It's no good, Captain.” The man focused intently on Merlin. “I can tell she's there.”

The patient's breathing became more and more belaboured. His grip on Merlin's hand got feebler and feebler. Merlin was about to grab a syringe, when the man spasmed, choking on his own breath. His body arched and seized. His gaze fixed itself on a point behind Merlin and filled with pure horror. With his arm he batted away at the air. Before his breathing became so short it stopped, he gurgled some words. Then his eyes glazed over, his body went rigid, until eventually his muscles went completely lax. Merlin put his fingers to his neck. There was no pulse. Merlin bent over him. The Lance Corporal wasn't breathing. His gaze was still full of terror, as if it had frozen that way in the man's last moments. Unable to contemplate such an extent of fear, knowing he'd done nothing to alleviate it, which should have been his duty, Merlin closed the patient's eyes. 

His heart heavy, his sense of guilt prickled, Merlin continued with his round of the wards. He acted mechanically, barely taking in what was going on, his mind still on the events that had led to the Lance Corporal's death.

Merlin told himself he was being silly and superstitious to boot. There was no telling what went on in the head of a dying man, how his vision might come to be distorted, how his senses might fail to respond, creating hallucinatory states that had nothing to do with reality. But even knowing all of this Merlin couldn't shake off his unease. If they'd asked him if there was a malevolent lady trailing his steps, he would have said no, but he couldn't help checking, looking over his shoulder for a fearful image.

It was with a sense of relief that he finished his morning duties and went to the garden. It wasn't well tended. The rose bushes had died and the flower beds had dried up. But he was in the open, which was what he was looking for. The house was dark and musty, stifling. When he was inside he felt the urge of running outside. It was no place to be. 

He was walking down the slope, when he saw that a few patients were sunning themselves on deck chairs. Among them was Lieutenant Pendragon. Merlin had liked the man. He was frank and open, not one to back down when confronted with authority. Though Merlin was in the army, he wasn't too fond of the chain of command, so he appreciated that quality in Arthur Pendragon. Needing some human contact after the death he'd just witnessed, Merlin deviated from his admittedly random path and made for him.

Arthur Pendragon was stretched on the grass, his crutches lying alongside his body. Merlin sat by him. At first they didn't talk. They watched the wind sweeping dust and gravel from the path, the nurses come and go, and the patients slowly pacing the grounds. Orderlies carried a stretcher into the house.

“You don't look too well,” Lieutenant Pendragon said. “You're a bit green about the gills.”

Merlin tossed his head back and laughed. “I thought I was the one who should pass that kind of comment.”

Lieutenant Pendragon shrugged. “You look off to me, sir, that's all.”

“Do I?” Merlin's mother used to say he wore his heart on his sleeve and told him it was precious though imprudent. He suspected that was still the case today if the Lieutenant had noticed. “I had a bad day. I lost a patient.”

“I'm sorry.” The Lieutenant shifted closer. “You must be used to it but I'm still very sorry.”

Merlin grabbed a tuft of grass, ripped it off and rubbed it between his palms. “A secret about doctors. We never really get used to it.”

“I thought you had to,” the Lieutenant said, growing thoughtful by the second. “The way a soldier does.”

“Did you ever adapt to it?” Merlin found talking with the Lieutenant challenging, a way to test his own beliefs.

“No.” The breath seemed to stop in the Lieutenant's lungs. “I can't say I ever did.”

“The same goes for doctors. We may talk a good game, but we're never really braced for it.” Merlin licked his lips. He wanted to talk to the Lieutenant, explain his state of mind to him. He wasn't sure that would help at all, but it would still be liberating, and it would deepen the contact between them. Perhaps Merlin's relationship to his patient ought to stay more formal, but he couldn't help himself. Lieutenant Pendragon had been so frank with him when they'd met in Merlin's garret; Merlin wanted to repay him with the same coin. “But it's not the only reason I'm out of sorts.”

Pendragon tilted his head. “What is then?”

“There was something about this particular death.” Even going over it in memory made Merlin shudder. “It was different from other deaths. See, the man was hallucinating. It was devastating to see.”

“Poor sod,” Pendragon said. “I don't blame you for feeling so upset.”

Merlin looked into the distance. People were busy about it, but the house kept being bathed in motionlessness, in gloom. It looked as though nothing anyone might do could change it. It looked like a place of perpetual, static doom. “He insisted he saw a woman, a dark-haired lady.” Merlin oughtn't go over that again, but he couldn't stop himself. “Looking over malignantly at him. He died thinking she was preying on him.”

“A dark-haired woman?” the Lieutenant asked. “Are you sure'?”

Merlin didn't tell him that he'd fancied he'd seen her too. That was stuff and nonsense. He just thought he had because of all the hoopla the Lance Corporal had made about it. “That's what he said. Why?”

“Nothing. Nothing.” Lieutenant Pendragon looked tense; his gaze grew more shuttered. He looked around as though he thought someone was overhearing their discussion. By and by, he seemed to relax. He put a hand of Merlin's shoulder. “You've done your best, Captain. You cannot blame yourself.”

That was what Merlin had been trying to tell himself to no avail. Coming from Lieutenant Pendragon it made all the difference in the world. The reassurance buoyed him, comforted him, erased the mire of darkness he'd plunged himself in. Merlin had no idea how the Lieutenant had come to exercise so much power over him, but so it was, and he was grateful. “Thank you,” he said, his throat working. “I appreciate your words.”

“They're truly meant.”

Before he could say how much the words had impacted him, Merlin stood. He was in the army; connections such as he felt for this soldier were not countenanced. He couldn't indulge in his anymore than he could get close to a patient. He had a job to do here and he would be remiss if he put himself first. “I must get back to work.”

“Have a good day, Captain,” Lieutenant Pendragon told him.


	11. Chapter 11

Night fell fast over Le Fay House. The corridors got darker and darker, the wards colder and colder. Not matter how many lights were turned on, shadows lurked in every corner. The grounds outside became invisible, enveloped by a pall of darkness. Not even the moon shone.

Ranulf put down his last card, a seven of clubs. “And I win.”

“This is the third hand in a row,” Arthur said, looking at the four cards he was still holding. With the object of the game being shedding all cards, that wasn't exactly good news. “If I didn't know better I'd say you'd cheated.” 

“Nah, it was all those black jacks.” Ranulf collected Arthur's cards and added them to the deck. “How many cards did I make you pick up?”

“Four.” That had been the beginning of the end for Arthur.

“Well, we can have another round and--”

A nurse appeared and told them to put away their cards. They were both reluctant to stop. The ward wasn't exactly a happy place, filled with doom and gloom as it was. Playing had taken their minds off the atmosphere. But the nurse wasn't in a mood to listen to them. She gave them their medication, told them to turn their bedside lights off, and moved on to the next bed, repeating her orders to the new set of patients.

Though he had had bad dreams even without the medication, Arthur didn't take his dose. Watching him, Ranulf did the same. They hadn't spoken about it. They hadn't agreed on anything. It was just something Ranulf chose to do after Arthur started. Neither of them commented on the subject and by the time lights were off they were both half asleep already. At Le Fay manor days were uneventful, but tiring anyway.

He was still in the house, up and about, no trace of his injury. Light flooded the empty corridors, dust motes dancing on rays that streamed in from the window. Arthur walked along the passageway, looking for nurses, for members of staff. But no one seemed to be about. The house, though void, seemed to have been rejuvenated. The paintings hanging along the walls looked fresher, the paint that matted the ceilings was whiter than Arthur remembered. There was no dust and fewer dark corners.

Not knowing why he was doing so, Arthur opened one of the doors. He found himself in a bright drawing room with sofas on one side, huge windows, and a piano on the other. The woman Arthur had seen before sat at it, absent-mindedly playing music, deep notes following one on the heel of the other, when a man said, “I've summoned the carriage.”

“The carriage, uncle Gorlois?” the woman asked. She sounded confused, lost. Her voice was low but hollow.

“I'm going to London,” the uncle said. “On business.”

Arthur didn't know why, given that the scene was unfurling quietly, but the notion the man would now go unsettled him. He wanted him to stay, maybe play a piece of music with his niece, or read the reports on the paper. Anything but having him gone. 

Yet the Uncle seemed determined to go. He insisted upon it in dry tones. “It's final,” he said at last. “I've quiet made up my mind.”

The woman got up and grabbed his hands. “I know something's going to happen to me.” She clutched at him as one would a lifeline. “I dreamt it. If you go, I'm going to be all alone.”

The Uncle's severe expression cracked for a moment, so much so Arthur expected him to relent, but his face closed off and he said, “That's all nonsense, Morgana. It's just nerves. That's what the doctor said.”

Morgana scoffed. “The doctor? The doctor understands nothing.” She buried her nails in the skin of her uncle's hand. “He thinks my nightmares the product of vapours, my fanciful womanly mind. I tell you you're taking this too lightly, Uncle. I'm not being the prey of nerves. It's not my fancy constitution. You think that because you firmly believe women to be the object of such restlessness. Because you deem us irrational and easily scared. I'm not, Uncle.” Her eyes sparked and she hissed the words. “But that's not the reason, Uncle. I know what is happening to me and my fear is strongly rational.”

“It's not!” The Uncle freed himself from Morgana's grip and swept his arms about. “You're loved and cosseted; you're the first lady in the township. You have no reason to fear anything.”

“I have though.” Morgana interlocked her hands as if in prayer. “I-- I have dreamt of bad things happening to me.”

“And that's all it is, Morgana,” her uncle said. “Dreams and nothing more.”

Morgana stepped back as though horror was making her back away. She stood in front of the window, limned by its light. The rays that filtered in from outside gave her a glow that seemed preternatural. “Please, Uncle, don't make the mistake of leaving me alone.”

The Uncle left, the echo of his footsteps dying off as he moved away. Morgana sat back at the piano but she didn't play. Though she wasn't, she appeared small, and very forlorn. A bitter smile cracked her lips at one time, but it was swiftly erased. 

Arthur wanted to go over to her, put a hand on her shoulder, and console her, fill her loneliness. But he couldn't cross the room, couldn't move over to her. So he watched and his sense of foreboding grew. In the stillness of the moment it was almost palpable. 

Then sound exploded. Someone knocked angrily on the door; voices called out for the witch. A maid ran in, screaming. “They're outside. Half the village. They want to talk to your uncle.”

“My uncle isn't home.” Morgana said that collectedly, but the ruckus downstairs hadn't died down.

There was a crash and footsteps sounded. Arthur looked to the stairwell and saw a group of about thirty individuals come up from the ground floor. They were dressed like peasants, in coarse, drab clothing that showed the signs of wear, bearing the tools of their jobs. A man wielding an axe stepped to the fore of this little mob. “We've come here for redressing.”

Morgana stood tall. “Or what?”

“We want to talk to your uncle.” A woman showed her fist. 

Morgana looked around. “He isn't here,” she said in a voice barely weakened by the aggression she was encountering.

“You must be punished,” a frail woman with a front tooth missing said. “For consorting with the devil.”

“I don't consort with the devil.” Morgana clutched at the fabric of her gown, making it ripple.

Accusations flew about. The mob protested Morgana's words. The foremost members of the group stomped ahead, making for Morgana. They surrounded her; they encircled her.

Arthur wanted to tell her to run away, to fight. But he couldn't take part in the goings on; he was merely a witness. But even as such he felt all the fear Morgana must be experiencing. It choked him and turned his heart cold. 

The mob pushed and pulled at Morgana; grabbed at her. Wisps of her hair were torn off her head; her dress tore. They dragged down the stairs, chanting about giving the friend of the devil their dues. 

They were outside, at the back of the house, where the servants quarters were. The grass sang in the wind and birds sang in the tree. 

They hit her and dragged her. She tried to fight free but they grabbed her by the hair. Arthur tried to intervene but, though he could move, he couldn't seem to get close. He was bound to circle round the scene, be an observer but not a participant. Watching the scene wrenched his heart in his chest, made him sick to the stomach. He shouted and made outraged noises but his complaints availed him nothing. 

The mob pushed and pulled at Morgana, dragged her to the base of a tree. One of the villagers made a noose, another one wrapped it around her neck. She fought; she hissed and spat. She was hit in the face. She was called 'witch' and 'spawn of Satan'. Some of the women in the group tore her clothing. Others muttered prayers. The men hoisted her up a branch. They were holding her feet but their intent was clear. 

Arthur screamed himself hoarse; his heart beat so fast it seemed it would crash to a standstill. He fought against the pull of the force that kept him hovering around the scene, but he was as powerless to do anything as at the moment it began.

The crowd stepped away from Morgana, watched her dangle from the tree. Her neck didn't snap so she choked instead and thrashed, kicking her legs for long moments of agony. At last she flopped, like a fish that had stopped struggling for air. 

When she had stopped moving, they cut her off. They didn't say a prayer over her, but carried her lifeless body over to the well, her hand trailing the grass. Circling the well, they threw her in. Bones cracked; the sound of splashing water followed.

“The witch is dead,” the peasants said. “We're delivered from evil.”

Arthur felt as weary as though he'd fought a battle. He was hoarse from all the screaming he had done. Savage rage at the peasants shot through him. It tied him in knots. It combusted his feelings. Anger took him over; made him want to act, react. 

He was about to take a step forward when a face appeared before his. It was Morgana's, white and grey, with black circles under her eyes. Dark bruises ringed her neck. She smiled and said, “The witch is not dead.”

She reached for him and fear shot through Arthur. He yelled.

And woke screaming. He was in his ward, darkness surrounding him. “It was just another nightmare,” he told himself, his voice kept low for fear of waking the other patients. He leant over the nightstand to pour himself some cold water and saw that the bed near his was empty, the covers kicked off. 

“Ranulf?” Arthur said, misgiving making him turn cold. “Ranulf?”

Though they had bed pans, he had to have gone to the bathroom. Using the urinal implied the nurses had to empty it. If you were fit enough to avoid that, you would. There was a toilet on this floor, at the end of it, As far as Arthur knew there was only something the matter with one of Rnaulf's eyes, not with his legs. Minutes passed and he failed to return. His bed remained empty. Arthur wanted to alert a nurse but there was none in the ward. This late at night they were probably all asleep. They likely woke up for brief rounds at set times or in a case of an emergency, but otherwise weren't around.

Arthur might go looking for one, but he didn't think that the best option. Leaning over, he grabbed his crutches and pulled himself up. His leg still hurt, and going traipsing around wasn't exactly a pleasure, but he couldn't abide sitting still, the more so when something was the matter. 

Hobbling on, he moved along the length of the ward. The other patients were sleeping. They all seemed to be completely out of it. They didn't even stir. Moonlight washed in from the windows, painting shadow gargoyles as it peered in. Arthur ignored the eeriness of them and concentrated on putting one step in front of the other. He wished it could have been as easy as it had once been, when every gesture was natural and it didn't require much thought.

Nowadays going about hurt. Having a goal meant suffering for it. He had to hold on tight to his determination to accomplish what he had set out to do so he could see whatever he needed through. This time he was set on finding out where Ranulf was. Maybe it was because the dream had unsettled him so. Maybe he was clutching at straws and nothing was wrong with his friend. But still he had a bad feeling about his absence.

He left the ward behind and made it onto the corridor. At the bottom of it a white light shone like the light of the moon, but it came from the inside and was much more potent than the flickering brightness emanating outside. 

Arthur called out, “Nurse?”

But nobody answered. Even more deeply troubled than before, Arthur went quicker. This new pain made his leg ache and feel tender; it was agony on his knee and on his bones. But Arthur bit his lip and careered onwards on his crutches, their rhythmic clopping as the touched the floor the only sound in the solemn stillness.

When he got to the bottom of the corridor, he saw it. He took it all in. For a moment he believed he was still in the dream world and that he would wake again. But soon the idea was soon eclipsed by the circumstances. He was standing. His leg hurt in ways it never did when he was dreaming and when he pinched himself he didn't startle awake. Because he'd been all along. He had all along been a witness to the horror his very senses recoiled from.

Ranulf hung from the chandelier that dangled above the stairwell. His head sat at a broken angle. His mouth was open and his tongue stuck out. He was pasty white; his eyes glazed. He was clearly dead, with no life left in his body. 

Looking at him was a woman. She wasn't one of the nurses. While they wore light blues and greys, this woman was wrapped in darker clothing. The cut of it was all wrong too. It wasn't the functional one of the nurses uniform, but a gown with ample skirts and a trimmed waist, nothing that Arthur had seen at the hospital. Nothing he'd actually ever seen in his life.

He was about to shout, to wake up the whole building, when the woman moved from her position. She sprung up close to him, shouting a silent scream in his face, her own contorted in a grimace of rage.


	12. Chapter 12

Merlin turned the page. He hadn't stopped reading in an hour. The diary spoke of a woman haunted by fear of what she was, preyed upon by an external world that didn't understand her. The words were hard to accept; they hurt in ways Merlin hadn't supposed possible. A book, albeit a testimony of real past events, shouldn't shake one so. And yet Merlin was on tenterhooks. He wanted to continue reading, to find out what had happened to Morgana Le Fay, what her destiny had been.

He was starting on the next page when a snap of wind closed the book. Merlin reopened it, looking for the point he'd stopped at, when the door flew inwards. Arthur Pendragon was in, panting fast, his face white, fear stamped on it. Bending over his crutches he said, “Ranulf and the woman. That woman killed Ranulf.”

Merlin dropped the book and said, “What! I don't understand. What happened?” Panic clouded Merlin's confusion. “What's this talk of death?”

“The man in the bed next to mine went missing.” Arthur Pendragon's eyes were large and full of dread. “So I went looking for him.” His breath was still coming fast. “I found him.” His mouth set in a grim line. “He was hanging from a rope.”

That was one of Merlin's greatest fears as a doctor, that his patients would give up and do harm to themselves. He hadn't taken part in the Great War. He'd been nothing more than a child during its duration but he knew men came back to it shocked to the very marrow, wrecks of human beings, unable to cope with continued civilian life. “I'm so sorry. It shouldn't have happened under my watch.”

“No, you don't understand!” Pendragon tapped his crutch on the floor as though to vent his frustration with Merlin's lack of understanding or to make a point. “He didn't kill himself. The woman killed him.”

Lieutenant Pendragon was making no sense. “Woman, what woman? I'm sure no nurse would ever harm a patient.”

Pendragon shook his head flatly. “I'm not talking about a nurse.” He took a deep breath. “I realise you must be thinking me mad. You must think that the war has done it to me. But I'm not. You must trust me. You must believe me.”

Instinctively, Merlin said, “I do.”

“I saw a woman.” Pendragon was speaking hurriedly but rationally. “She did him harm, I'm sure. Her name's Morgana.”

“Morgana?” Merlin picked up the book he'd dropped. “Like this Morgana?” He crossed over and showed Arthur Pendragon the first page of the diary he'd found. “Are you sure?”

Pendragon's jaw set. “I'm positive.” With more hesitance, he added, “She's the woman from my dreams.”

“Your dreams?” Merlin asked. “What dreams?”

“The nightmares I told you about,” Pendragon said. “They involved a woman every time. Her name was Morgana. In the last one she was killed by angry villagers.”

If this had been any other person but Pendragon, Merlin wouldn't have believed them. A dream woman killing people was a bit much. But he trusted Pendragon. He was a down to earth, no nonsense officer who only wanted to get back to his job. He had no time for flights of fancy. He was stable. A good man to whom bad things had happened. Merlin trusted his word. He didn't do so entirely blindly however. 

Things were going on here in this house, he sensed it. The womanly face he'd seen in the window of this very room when he'd just moved in, the figure he'd spied in the Lance Corporal's room seemed all real. The patients had also been somehow aware of her, he was sure. Who was to say his predecessor hadn't got wind of her, that he didn't know about her? Perhaps he did. Perhaps that was the reason why he had gone, left his job so suddenly. It added up.

“Tell me, Lieutenant,” Merlin asked, knowing already that he was requiring a lot of this man, “do you feel like going downstairs and showing me the body?”

Pendragon nodded. “I feel up to it. Justice must be served. We need to cut him down.”

The sight was more gruesome than Merlin had thought possible. As a doctor he'd seen his fair share of dead men. They came with the job. But he had never quite seen such desolation on the face of a corpse. He had never seen the workings of death etched so deep on a face. He had never perceived its traces as he did on this man's visage. “He can't dangle there for all to see.” It was too obscene. “I'll try and get a ladder and--”

He was thinking out loud, figuring out the next steps he would have to take, when he felt a hand on his shoulder and he was pulled back, dragged backwards by an invisible force.

“She's behind you!” Pendragon shouted. “Captain, she's there!”

Merlin couldn't stop careering backwards down the corridor. With his leg he hit the banister that overlooked the central hall. His back scraped along the floor. With his hands he flailed, trying to grab at something so he would stop zooming past. But he couldn't. He couldn't put a stop to his hurtling past. Then he slammed against the wall, head hurting with an explosive kind of pain that robbed him of sight and sound.

When he came to, the Lieutenant was leaning over him, one of his crutches propped against the banister. “Captain, are you all right?”

Merlin was about to answer, when he saw her. She was standing behind them, her face white, her expression oozing hatred, her garb that of another century. When she realised he could see her, she smiled thinly, malevolently, then touched the Lieutenant on the shoulder. With a sudden pull she tossed him through the air, causing him to hit a cabinet, whose glass shattered.

Before she could pick Pendragon up and attack again, Merlin shouted, “Morgana, stop! Stop hurting people!”

She flung Arthur against the wall. The wainscoting cracked, the wall got dented. Arthur slid down the length of of it, his eyes closing in a swoon. 

Merlin stood, facing the apparition. She now stood a few steps in front of him, her hair snaking around her in loose curls, her flesh white as marble, her eyes circled with grey. She showed her teeth, her lips curling sideways, and then she moved towards him, hand extended.

Stepping backwards, away from her, Merlin bumped into the balustrade behind him. Without taking a step she hovered closer to him. She grabbed him by the neck and lifted him off his feet. Merlin was choking; he couldn't breathe. He gasped for air and looked into her eyes. “Plea--” he couldn't even plead for his life, make his case. She just squeezed on his windpipe harder and harder, her hands feeling as real as those of a living person's.

His vision was greying at the edges; his lungs were on fire with the need for air. His Adam's apple was being crushed under Morgana's thumb. He kicked and flailed, attempting to fight free. But she was strong, and he couldn't wriggle out of her grasp. His thoughts were scattering in the wild rhythm of his heart, when the sun rose past the treeline outside, shining through the window.

Morgana's grasp became feebler and Merlin could breathe again, his lungs drinking in the precious air. He had new strength; he could oppose her now. He twisted in her grasp, slipping almost free. 

When a ray of sunlight hit her, she dropped him, disappearing in it, her features undoing themselves in its warmth.


	13. Chapter 13

Coming to was painful. His head hurt, his back was on fire, and his legs, whose pains had never left him, caused him bright new waves of agony. As he blinked, sight came back to him and he saw the Captain leaning over him, taking his pulse and cradling his head. Arthur made to move, but the Captain, said, “Easy, easy, you hit your head.”

“She--” The memory of her put cold in his chest, in his heart, nearly stopping it in a clear wave of pure panic. “Where is she?”

“She's gone,” the Captain said, checking Arthur over for wounds. “She dematerialised before my eyes.”

Arthur felt a ray of hope pierce the wintry pall that covered Arthur's limbs. “Is she gone for good?”

“I don't think so.” The Captain checked the space around them. Soon, Arthur knew, the nurses would be up their first round. “But I'm going to make sure she leaves this place entirely.”

“How?” Arthur couldn't help asking. He trusted the Captain as much as he trusted himself, but he understood the complications involved in the task he'd set himself. “She's... she's not of this world.”

“I'll find a way.” The Captain's brow creased deeply. He seemed determined. As though now he'd made the decision to tackle the apparition nothing would stop him. “But we need help.”

Captain Emrys helped Arthur up, saw to it that he wasn't to badly off. Once he'd medicated him, he asked him to accompany him upstairs. It was dawn by now and the nurses were about to wake. They had only so much time before they went on their rounds and found Ranulf's corpse. Merlin told him he wanted to have it done with before that happened.

They knocked on a heavy door and were welcomed in by a sharp, brisk 'Come in'. The chamber was dominated by a four poster with brocade hangings behind which tapestried walls stood. The curtains were of the same fabric as the bed decorations but they were drawn. A man was sitting in bed in his heavy flannel pyjamas. He wasn't sleeping but he looked as though he hadn't been awake long. Perhaps the knock itself had got him up. “Emrys,” he said, squinting at him. “What does this mean. Why are you here?”

“It's an emergency, General, sir.” The Captain stepped into the light of the windows. 

“And I suppose it couldn't have waited till I got to my office.” The general kicked off the blankets that covered him and put on a dressing gown.

“Unfortunately not, sir.” Captain Emrys wrung his hands. It was a strange gesture coming from him. He ought to have stood at attention, the more so since he was still withstanding the General's scrutiny. 

Arthur supposed it showed just how upset he was by the ordeal they'd both been through. If he hadn't his crutches to hold on to for all he was worth, he would probably be doing the same just now.

“I'm afraid one of our patients has died,” the Captain added before the General could interrupt him. “In the most gruesome of ways.”

The General tightened the belt of his dressing gown. “And you took it upon yourself to wake me, in the company of a patient--” He looked to Arthur. “--just to warn me of an event that, however lamentable, must be a daily occurrence in a war time hospital?”

The Captain shook his head. Arthur could read the exasperation in his face, could tell that he wanted to make the matter clear to his superior without being able to. Arthur wasn't sure he could help himself. He believed the Captain's tale because he had been part of it, because of the dreams he'd been haunted by, and because the apparition faced him in all its reality. Otherwise he wouldn't be persuaded it was a real thing. 

“He didn't die in normal circumstances,” the Captain said. He opened his mouth again to further clear up his statement, when there was a knock on the door.

“What's with today?” The General muttered the words. “Come in.”

A nurse entered. Her cap sat askew, her apron was hanging loosely across her front and she was pale in the face, with a look in her eyes that spoke of horror. “Apologies for bursting in, sir.” She looked at the Captain and Arthur with an air of surprise about her, but she didn't let it stop her from relaying her news, for she continued, “There's been a grave accident, sir. One of our patients hung himself during the night.”

“Was that your news, Captain?” the general said, turning his head in Emrys' general direction.

Captain Emrys said, “Partly, sir.”

The general addressed the girl again. “Take him down before the other patients see him.”

The nurse, still green about the gills, nodded. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“No.” The general's expression smoothed a notch. “Just see to it that nobody notices.”

The nurse behaved almost like a soldier. She took her orders with little fuss and making no objection, leaving the room quietly.

“If there's nothing more,” the General told Arthur and the Captain. “You're dismissed.”

Captain Emrys took a step forward. “There's actually something more.”

The General clearly hadn't been expecting that. He raised his eyebrow and let his surprise show on his face. Even so he made a sign for the Captain to speak.

Arthur knew what a delicate moment this was. Their tale had of the incredible. Arthur knew few people who'd be likely to believe it and of those most wouldn't be trustworthy. The General seemed a very level-headed man, one who kicked no fuss, but expected others to act similarly. The Captain's revelation would sound like so much rot. 

The Captain said, “I don't think our patient killed himself.”

“If he's hanging--” The General's lips turned down. “--it stands to reason to think it was no natural death.”

The Captain hesitated. “Actually.”

The General's face darkened. “Unless you're trying to imply that some fellow patient killed him.”

Captain Emrys took courage. The manifestation of it appeared in his features, which clenched, almost closing up with thoughtfulness. His body stood at attention. It looked like an easy pose but Arthur knew it wasn't. The Captain was fighting to be listened to. “I don't think any man harmed him.” He took a breath that sounded deep. “I think an apparition caused his death.”

“An apparition.” The General's mouth cramped into a dissatisfied moue. “What do you mean an apparition?”

“An entity, sir,” the Captain said, shifting in place. “The spirit of a dead woman.”

The look on the General's face was one of pure anger. He'd turned livid and his mouth had tightened to nothing more than a pursed slit. “Are you trying to tell me that a ghost killed your patient, Captain?”

“I know how it sounds.” Captain Emrys cleared his throat. “I realise that it cones across as utterly bonkers. But this place is haunted.”

Arthur knew that he had to help. The Captain had had a reason for making him witness this meeting and that wasn't only for testimony purposes. He needed to contribute. “I saw the apparition too, sir. It tried to kill me.”

The General hit a shelf, making the objects on it fly. One of the small vases that had stood on it crashed downwards and broke in three large pieces, their jagged ends glinting in the early morning light. “I'll have no more of this. Ghosts don't exist. They've never existed. And they most certainly had nothing to do with one of our patients' demise. Is that clear?”

Captain Emrys made a noise in his throat. “Sir, I saw it with my own eyes.”

“I did it too.” Arthur was here to support his Captain, to add his testimony to his. It would be easier to keep silent, especially after the general had showed his temper. But he wouldn't be like that. Firstly because he had been taught better by his family. One stuck with the truth, defended it with one's own life if need be. Secondly because Captain Emrys had been brave enough to voice his worries. Arthur couldn't do any less. “It was a woman, a spectral woman who had yet the strength of two men.”

“If you don't want a demerit on your files,” the General said, holding himself very upright, “you'll stop with this talk of ghosts.”

Merlin was clearly read for one last sully. “I believe we weren't the only ones who saw her, sir. The former occupant of my position, Dr Liddle, left in a hurry. I feel he did because of the scenes he witnessed. Likewise a Lance Corporal who was amid our patients saw her in the last moments before his death.”

“Captain Emrys--” The General breathed a loud breath. “--are you telling me I should believe you on the word of a dead man and a doctor who's never said anything of any ghosts?”

“Sir, I hope you can trust us so we can do the right thing by this hospital.” Captain Emrys' Adam's apple bobbed in his throat.

“I'll trust myself not to do the wrong thing by this place,” General Alvarr said. “I won't hear any more tattle about ghosts, Captain. I want you to continue as before, going on rounds, and looking after your patients while making sure that nobody gets too superstitious in the wards. The moment I hear talk of ghosts among our sick is the moment you loose your job. Is that clear?”

Merlin stood to attention. There was nothing else he could have done. Defying his superior would have cost him dearly. No member of the military wanted to face a court martial. “Yes, sir.”

The General's gaze sifted on to Arthur.

Arthur's innate law-abiding spirit made it impossible for him to ignore such direct orders. Though the brunt of the general's ire hadn't been directed to him, he was equally responsible in his own eyes. Straightening as much as he could while clinging to his crutches, Arthur struck his chest out. “Sir.”

Both Emrys and Arthur had failed in their plan.


	14. Chapter 14

Merlin took up his rounds that day, trying to show a calm front. He acted as he had on previous days, seeing his patients, examining their wounds, charting down their health status. He had lunch in the canteen; he addressed his colleagues calmly and tried to smile once or twice. In the afternoon he saw to the logistics of running a hospital, ordering batches of medicines and bandages. Everything ran smoothly and whoever observed him might have said there was nothing the matter with him. That was the kind of report he wanted to make the General to get at the very least. With Sergeant Mordred Jones on his heels that was hopefully the report the General heard.

But he couldn't forget what had happened. He couldn't ignore what he'd witnessed that night. He couldn't erase the apparition's visage from his memory nor blot out the coldness of her stare. It had driven right through his marrow, convinced him of her malignancy, of her wish to do the living harm. Every time he recollected the event of last night he trembled. Fearing another aggression, he looked round all the time, being on high alert all day.

The more he fretted; the more he worked himself in a state of fear, the more he realised he should put an end to it. He had to do something. He had to make sure his patients were no longer preyed upon by the entity haunting Le Fey house. He had to ensure their safety by putting an end to the wraith's presence in the mansion.

He was pacing up and down, thinking about how he could effect his objective, when someone knocked on his door. Knowing that the apparition wouldn't be knocking on doors, he was easy in his mind when he opened it.

Like the other night Lieutenant Pendragon was standing on his crutches, waiting to be invited in. Merlin didn't hesitate in doing so and before long they were both seated in Merlin's rooms.

“Going to the authorities hasn't worked, has it?” Lieutenant Pendragon said, leaning his crutches against the side of the armchair.

“I should have known.” General Alvarr had seemed to him a no nonsense fellow from the start. While he was a good member of the military, he lacked the acuity to act outside his sphere of experience. He'd have to be tackled by the ghost himself to start to believe in it and they couldn't wait for the apparition to target him before they did something. This was about the lives of the patients. “We must go around him.”

“It seems like it.” Lieutenant Pendragon swallowed hard. “I normally wouldn't go against the chain of command but in this case we can't do anything but.”

“I agree.”

“The question is--” Lieutenant Pendragon apparently knew how to address the crux of the matter. “--how do you get rid of someone's already dead?”

“I'm Catholic.” This was something seemingly wholly unconnected but it did make a difference. Merlin was raised in a culture that valued ritual and held strong belief in all manifestations of the after life. “I think I've read about this.”

“About getting rid of ghosts, sir?” Lieutenant Pendragon asked.

“In a way.” His readings hadn't been extensive but they all touched on the same point. “Souls need to be at peace. Ghosts are restless spirits.”

Pendragon made a pensive face. “I think I know why this ghost is restless.” He looked up to share the information with Merlin. “She was killed. That's why she's so angry.”

Merlin thought over what Lieutenant Pendragon had just told him. It fit with what he knew of unhappy wandering souls. “There's something else, isn't there.”

Pendragon nodded. “Morgana was a weird girl. She seemed to have strange abilities.”

“What kind of abilities?” Merlin had no idea what they were talking about. The supernatural wasn't his field. Up until recently he hadn't even believed in it. 

“I'm not sure myself, but she had dreams that scared her and her eyes glowed.”

Merlin remembered the diary he had read. She hadn't kept it regularly. She seemed to be more inclined to write when she was upset or had something to complain about and most of it did seem disjointed. But Morgana had appeared convinced that her dreams had a prophetic quality about them and that they weren't coincidental. She believed she was different from everybody else. “That was why the people around her thought her a witch.”

“It seems so.” Lieutenant Pendragon said. “And that's what caused her death.”

“The diary I found ends abruptly.” Merlin had thought the Morgana from the book had married and moved away. At the time that happened frequently. That wasn't a reason for leaving a cherished tome back home, but that had been the once explanation that had occurred to him. The Morgana in the diary had certainly been too young to die. At least of natural causes, unless an illness other than dreams affected her. “What do you know that I don't?”

“I told you it's all dreams.” Lieutenant Pendragon mopped his brow with a handkerchief. “I cannot be sure that what happened in them is what happened in reality.”

“But Morgana did disappear.” Her diary stood testimony to that. “So any hint would help as to the why.”

“The local people thought her a witch, murmured among themselves.” Lieutenant Pendragon sounded sad, there was a raspier quality to his voice that hadn't been there before. “One afternoon she was left alone here in the big house. They forced their way into it. Found her, dragged her outside and...” His voice died down as if he couldn't compel himself to talk past his swallow.

“And...” Merlin could guess, but they needed all the facts they could gather. Without them they were at her mercy, unable to solve the problem of her haunting. 

Lieutenant Pendragon palmed his face. His hands trembled, their shaking subtle but present. At last he seemed to pull himself together and be able to speak. “Hung her from a tree outside the house. You'll know the tree.” He made a sign, pointing at the window. “When she was quite dead they threw her body in the well.”

Merlin clapped his hand on his thigh. “That's it, don't you see.” The theory might have seemed far fetched to some but it didn't to Merlin. His childhood had been steeped in such beliefs. “She's a restless spirit because she wasn't buried properly.”

“The well.” Pendragon's eyes lit up with understanding. “No, I can see that. But how do we put it to rights?”

Merlin could see only one way out of it. “We should find the body.” Or what was left of it after so many centuries. “And give her fair burial.”

Lieutenant Pendragon's eyes got smaller. “Will we need a priest for that?”

“No.” Merlin felt certain that they didn't need to stick to the letter. “All we need is to say a few words over her grave and get a place at the cemetery for her.”

“But how do we get her that place?” Pendragon sounded distraught with their impotence. “We'd need the vicar's permission.”

“We'll act at night.” Merlin knew they couldn't go about it any other way, not with General Alvarr being agnostic about their ghost, and the order he'd given them. Technically speaking, Pendragon, as a patient, could allow himself to go counter to the General's orders. But Merlin was damned if he did. Still, he had a soul to put to rest. “Get Morgana's remains and bury them. We'll say a few words out of the Bible over her body and then she'll find peace.” At least Merlin hoped so. “No need to alert any vicar.”

Explaining the whole story to one wouldn't be easy. If the General hadn't believed them, why would a clergyman?

Lieutenant Pendragon looked sceptically at him. “Let's hope that works out.” Then after a pause he added, “When do we do it?”

“Tomorrow night.” Merlin and Pendragon needed to rest before they attempted the quest. Merlin had no doubt about that. He only hoped Morgana didn't cause any more deaths in the in interim.


	15. Chapter 15

The night was cold but cloudless with a briskness to the air, which sawed at bones. The moon shone over the back of the house, highlighting its form, throwing its shape into relief. Its bulk seemed heavier, its foundations older, its windows gaped wider. Its chimneys appeared like so many beggar arms lifting themselves up towards the sky.

At this hour of the night there was no one around the well. It was solitary and oozed a bed smell Arthur had seldom inhaled before. It was the smell of decay, of death. Arthur was almost prompted to check out that nobody had fallen in it, but he was sure the reek was occasioned by the haunting rather than the presence of any fresh carcass.

Without letting himself be lured by the ghost, he stood in the background, leaning on one of his crutches, the other propped against the south wall of the house, blowing on his cold bitten, stiff hands.

He was rubbing them together to make the stiffness go out of them, when the door behind him opened and the Captain came out. “I'm sorry,” he said. “I would have been here sooner but a patient died.”

Arthur's breath was caught on a wave of instant panic. “Was it, you know...”

“No.” The Captain shook his head. “This man died of his wounds. She's been quiet.”

Arthur feared she'd been biding her time, that she knew they were going to act and that she wanted to reserve her rage for them. He had no reason to believe this was true. He certainly couldn't read in the mind of ghosts, but he still had an inkling it was so. If this was a military campaign and he the mind behind it, that's how Arthur would organise the attack. “So how do we go about it?”

“I'll go down the well,” the Captain said, opening the door behind him and picking up a coil of rope, a jute sack, and a torch. “I'll be looking for her remains. Anything I get, I'll put in the sack. When I'm done, I'll rush for the churchyard.”

“You can't do all of that alone!” It's too dangerous. If the ghost wakes, the Captain will be done for in such a vulnerable position. “Please, accept my help.”

The Captain gave Arthur the once over, his eyes lingering on his crutches. “Look, Pendragon--” He shook his head and sighed. “Look, Arthur, you've been a real asset and very brave so far. But there's one thing you can't do and that's lower yourself in this well with that leg.”

Arthur knew that his leg made things complicated, but he wasn't in the least done. He was committed to put this ghost to rest. He had started on this road and he wouldn't back down. He had had to leave his squadron back in Norway because of his wounds; he wouldn't stand by and watch the Captain die at the hand of the apparition because of the same health problem. That said Arthur couldn't go down the well and climb up, not even if he did away with the bandages that now constricted his leg. “I'll stay with you and heave you up when you're done.”

“Arthur.” The Captain looked at him soulfully, placing a hand on his shoulder. “If she comes, you can't run.”

“I can fight.” Arthur was a soldier. That was what he was born to do. “We're in this together. And that's how the story goes.”

The Captain squeezed his shoulder. “I should dissuade you. You're too important to lose.” The Captain looked away. “But if something goes wrong with me, you should try and finish the job.”

Arthur was appalled at idea of something happening to the Captain. The Captain had been doing so much for them. As a doctor and a man. That he was even trying to take on the supernatural was proof that he was a good soul. It certainly wasn't in his job description. “I promise I will,” he said, the words tasting like ashes in his mouth.


	16. Chapter 16

As Merlin started lowering himself, the wind picked up. A breath ghosted along his neck but other than Arthur Pendragon there was no one else around. Clinging to the rope, Merlin braced his feet against the wall of the well. 

“Good luck,” Arthur told him, from over the rim of it. 

Merlin looked down. His torch tied to his belt, he still couldn't see much of anything. Some of the moonlight played on the bottom of the shaft but everything else was wrapped in darkness. Merlin started slithering down the rope, feeling the walls of the wall. They were covered in moss, soft and slippery to the touch.

“Everything all right down there?” Arthur shouted from on top.

Merlin looked up. He could see Arthur's face and behind him the night sky with a pinprick of stars bursting across the firmament. Then he looked down. He could no longer see the moonlight's reflection. Taking a big breath, he moved downwards, his soles slipping on the well's wall. 

He was about midway down, when he heard a sound, like a whisper in his ear. Merlin knew he had to get down and drag the bottom for the centuries-old corpse; he was aware he mustn't stop, but detecting the sound made him freeze.

He looked round. At first he saw nothing, but after several seconds of concentrated staring he made out the folds of a white dress fluttering in the wind. Merlin hadn't reached bottom and besides Morgana's old clothes would be nothing but rags after so many years and so much time spent under water. It couldn't be that. 

He had to be looking at a manifestation. He had just come to that conclusion, when the body the dress was built around materialised, pale limbs, long white arms, a hollowed face out of which green eyes stared. 

“Morgana,” Merlin said, hoping he could reason with the ghost.

When he said her name, the apparition screamed. The sound was so high-pitched it made his ears ring, the hairs on his neck stand on end, and his hands to lose their grip on the rope. Merlin slipped several yards downwards before he caught his lifeline again. Hands chafed by the rope, Merlin bit his teeth and tried to gain his equilibrium back. “I'm trying to do the right thing by you, Morgana,” he said, risking enraging her again. “I'm only--”

Her cold touch speared him through, stopping his heart in his chest. She pulled him downwards and airs swept past him. His shoulders cracked as he hit the ground, and his legs hurt, water wetting his body.

Standing atop him, she let out another yell, her mouth open wide, a bottomless dark cavity.

Merlin fought her off, but she put a hand on his face and pushed his head underwater. It tasted brackish, foul. He attempted to sit up, but couldn't. She was too strong for him and he couldn't move. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't do anything.

He battled her frantically, flailing his arms and legs. Her hold on him was deathly. He needed air. He needed it desperately. With a heave he got his upper body clear of the water, and yelled something, but as soon as he had, Morgana grabbed him by the face again and pushed him under.

He arced and wrestled, struggled and lashed out. But he couldn't move; he was as though buried under. His thoughts blackened, shrunk, became nothing but a primal need for oxygen. The more his brain froze, the less he could counter Morgana. The less he could fight her, the less of a chance he had. Brain in a swirl of nothingness, he stopped reacting.


	17. Chapter 17

Arthur had heard the yells, the high pitched ones coming from the restless spirit, and Merlin's raw yelp. He knew something was going on; he was aware she was there, down in the depths of the well, together with Merlin. He could tell her intent was not good. But he didn't know what he could do to stop her in her tracks.

Arthur couldn't lower himself down. The Captain had been right. His bandages prevented him. He even considered removing them, but the truth was he couldn't bend or put weight on that leg. The bones in it hadn't had time to reconnect, to heal. He couldn't use it. And without the use of his leg he was in no fighting condition. He was no help to the Captain. 

She had all the power here and they were their victims. 

But still there had to be something he could do. There had to be a way for him to save the Captain. He couldn't let him die while he was in the middle of attempting a good action. So what? What could he do that would stop an angry ghost from taking its revenge?

An idea occurred to him.

Arthur leaned down over the rim of the well and shouted, “Morgana, I'm right here. I know all about you. Why don't you come and get me?”

Silence reigned in the back garden. Arthur couldn't make out any noise. 

Was he too late. Had Morgana killed the Captain too? Had he become another one of her victims? The notion made him sick. Captain Emrys didn't deserve all this. He was such a brave man. Going up against a ghost required guts, and he was gentle and kind. He was more than Arthur's superior. He was more than another casualty of war. He was someone Arthur could admire and respect, could look up to in the knowledge he was full of wisdom. This death put a notch on Arthur's soul.

He was already mourning it, when he heard the sound of splashing water. Arthur knew what this meant. The Captain was still fighting; he was still alive! 

Cupping his hands around his mouth, Arthur yelled again. It was now or never. “You know,” he hollerred, “I bet you were this big of a bully when you were alive and that's why they made away with you.”

Arthur wasn't sure the ploy had worked. Then splashing stopped. Arthur pricked his ears. What was going on? What was she doing? Had she listened? 

He was about to pull on the rope to attract her attention, when she materialised in front of him, hair streaming behind her without a breeze, her eyes white, her arm extended towards him. 

In his attempt to back away Arthur lost a crutch.

He was still putting distance between himself and Morgana – that was the extent of his plan –, when she appeared right in front of him. 

Well, at least he'd given the Captain time. He'd given him the opportunity to retrieve Morgana's body and accomplish their mission. Even if Arthur died now, which was likely given how angry Morgana looked right now, the Captain would put her spirit to rest. She'd have her due; she'd at least get the burial she deserved, though she couldn't get the life she ought to have lived. Justice would be served and the Captain would be the hero of the hour. Arthur could live with that.

Or, well, die with that.

She took a step and then another, grabbed him by the throat and lifted Arthur up. 

Arthur's Adam apple was squeezed by Morgana's fingers. His legs flailed in the void, the movement awaking pain in his shattered leg. As he tried to pry her hand off, Arthur attempted to breathe, but it was well nigh impossible. As if to prove that Arthur couldn't fight free, she pulled him up higher, so he was wriggling mid air. Arthur's face already felt hot with the lack of oxygen, when she threw him off.

He landed on his back a few yards, his painful leg throbbing at the impact. He wanted to bite back the moan he'd let out, preserve some of his dignity in the face of sure death, but he was aware that was impossible.

As she advanced on him, bare white feet barely skimming the grass, she smiled a hollow smile. In it Arthur could see his doom and the depths of fire and brimstone that came in the netherworld. 

As she neared, Arthur rolled onto his side. He knew he was done for; was certain that with everybody asleep and Merlin down the well no one would save him now. Nobody would help. But he was a soldier, he was a fighter. He wouldn't make it easy for her. 

Using his elbows he was dragging himself backwards in the grass, when a light in the mansion went on and a window opened. The general leant out and shouted, “What is this uproar?”


	18. Chapter 18

Merlin dragged the bottom of the well with his hands, milling his arms around. In here there were odds and ends that people had thrown in over time, a brush, an old mirror, lengths of wood that were by now soaked and tender, and smaller objects which were hard to make out in the dark. But of Morgana's body there was no trace.

Yet it couldn't be. Arthur's dream had been very specific. He had seen her be killed and thrown in the well. That certainly was no coincidence. Those dreams showed a connection between him and Morgana. There was a nexus between them. It had shown them the way. It had found confirmation in her own words. Merlin had had the diary all along; Arthur couldn't have known about it.

Morgana was here. She had to be.

Going on his haunches, Merlin moved his arms about until his fingers snagged onto something. Merlin pulled. It was a piece of fabric, soft and undone at the edges. Merlin couldn't tell its colour, but he could distinguish the type of cloth it had once been; brocade.

He was onto something. Pulling on the length of fabric he came to a bundle. He groped it. With it half submerged he couldn't tell what it was. He gathered it in his arms and stood up. He couldn't see well but even in the darkness of the well he could recognise the obvious shape of a skull.

These were Morgana's remains; they had lain here for century, unheeded and forgotten. 

If this had been his lot, Merlin would be angry too. Not only was Morgana's life cut short; what was left of her had been thrown away with no respect whatsoever. Nobody had ever given her justice. 

Merlin vowed that he would. There was no promise that was more solemn.

Finding the rope, Merlin prepared to climb the well wall.


	19. Chapter 19

The woman was in the general's room. She was in her white night gown, hair in disarray, her body emanating a pale light like the moon's. Her cheeks were hollow and her eyes pond green, their lustre preternatural.

The general said, “Nurse, you can't be here,” even though he knew she was no nurse and that no order of his would ever apply to her. 

Blood running cold, he stepped backwards, putting as much distance as he could between himself and the woman. 

“You must go, at once.” Where was his gun? Where had he put it?

For every step back that the General took, the woman took one, yet her feet didn't seem to touch the ground. When the general backed against the door, he found himself close to his bed stand. The gun. That's where he had put the gun. He pulled the drawer open and saw the weapon. His hand closed around it. He pointed and fired.

The window panes shattered in a rain of glass, but the woman continued gliding towards him, leaving no imprints of her feet on the floor. Then she vanished.

The General blinked. Could he breathe now? Was she gone? His shoulders collapsed; his breathing came slower. It seemed that she was gone. That she had vanished. The general laughed, mopping his brow, his breathing easing, a smile popping on his face. He was already convincing himself that he had suffered some kind of hallucination or waking dream, when she appeared again, an inch from his nose. Renewed terror flooded him at sight of her angry visage. He was trying to get his gun to work, when she took the sword a decorative piece of armour carried and run him through with it.

Pain racked the General. It worked through him in waves that brought him close to vomit. Cold wrapped itself around him and strength sapped from his legs. She cocked her head and smiled an evil smile. Emrys had been right. There had been a mysterious presence in the house; the mansion was indeed haunted by a creature of darkness. If only he'd listened. But perhaps there was still a way to save himself. Maybe if he shouted for help. He tried, but he only coughed blood. 

The woman leered.

The General crashed to his knees. In his mind he cursed her but he knew he was the one who was doomed. He tried to stall the moment, to hold on to his plans for safety, to his thoughts, but they came undone one by one until there was only utter blackness.


	20. Chapter 20

Merlin jumped clear of the edge of the well wall and hurried over to Arthur, who was lying at the bottom of the tree, his crutches far flung. 

When he got to him, he gathered him in his arms, and said, “Arthur, Arthur.”

“I'm fine, I'm fine.” Arthur moved in Merlin's arms, clung to him with the tenacity of fright. “She just came at me.”

Merlin had guessed as much. He'd had time to retrieve her bones because she wasn't attacking him, but someone else. “Where is she now?”

“I don't know.” Arthur looked around as though expecting to see her at any moment. “She's gone.”

“For now.” Merlin had no faith she would stop haunting them – and the whole household to boot – until her remains were buried, properly so. “Do you feel up for the last part of our mission?”

Arthur grimaced. He had been tossed and beaten and was clearly the worse for wear. But determination shone in his eyes. “I haven't come this far for nothing.”

“Good.” Merlin held the sack containing Morgana's bones tighter to him. “In which case we must make a run for the cemetery.”

Arthur was in no condition to run but with Merlin's help he managed hobbling along on his crutches. His pace wasn't of the fastest but it was jauntier than Merlin had believed possible. So far things were going according to plan, but they were reckoning without Morgana. They hadn't seen her in minutes, but that didn't mean she was done with them. Would she be able to haunt them once they were out of the house; did her power extend outside it? Merlin would have loved to know the answer, but they couldn't wait to see what happened. They had to act. That was the only thing that would save them now.

Many cars were available in the garage, but they had the key to none. Merlin cursed aloud, saying he ought to have stolen a pair earlier today. Arthur winked at him and said he could get the car to start without keys. In fact he did something to the wires that got the running. Merlin wanted to ask where he'd learnt that, but Arthur didn't seem to want to answer. Well, it didn't matter now. They had a ghost to think about.

Motor running, they negotiated country lanes. At this time of night and in this part of the county they were all empty, which allowed them to speed. Even so they couldn't rush as much as they would have wanted to. With the road zigzagging as much as it did, they couldn't dash about the way they needed. 

Still there was no trace of Morgana. She wasn't in the car. She didn't wait for them in the stopping lane, and she didn't materialise ahead of their car. At one time Merlin feared she had traced them. He saw a shape by the side of the road; a dark bulk moving against a background of trees. Merlin's heart went cold at sight of it, but when the headlights hit it, it turned out to be nothing more than a fawn.

As they neared the village, their trajectory straightened, the twists and turns of country tracks giving way to a tract of motor way. Once they were past it, they climbed the hill and reached the cemetery, the church spires glinting in the moonlight. 

They left the car hidden past the bend of the road and hurried towards the churchyard. The gates of it were closed but they weren't so tall Merlin couldn't climb them. So he did. When he landed on the other side, he picked up a stone and hit the lock with it. It gave and he opened the gate. Arthur hobbled inside. 

“So where do we bury her?” Arthur asked, as he followed Merlin into the heart of the cemetery.

“There,” he said, pointing to a mound that seemed void of crosses. 

They found a spade in the shed, which was open, and a bible in the church, which was locked, but the door yielded to some fiddling with it. Once they had it Merlin set to work. Arthur, unable to stand without his crutches, sat on the edge of the grave Merlin was excavating. He guarded the sack with Morgana's remains. 

Merlin had already built a sizeable hump with the earth he'd dug, when the leaves in the tree hanging above the selected grave space began to rustle. Merlin made himself not notice it, but he could clearly make out the sound.

He had started to shovel earth more quickly, when a wind rose, and a chill passed through him. Arthur glanced at him as though about to say something, when Morgana appeared. She looked around and, when she zeroed in on him, her face was a mask of hatred.

Though his limbs shook with fear, Merlin didn't let himself stop digging. To do so would have been akin to surrendering, giving up. He went faster, working at top speed. 

Morgana raced him. He didn't know what she meant to do. She was strong enough to kill him. As she moved towards him, she kept looking him in the eye, her intent evil. Clutching his spade, Merlin forced it into the soft ground. She came at him, sticking a hand into his chest. 

Cold wrapped itself around him. It bloomed inside. His heart stopped; the blood in his veins curdled. With a gasp, Merlin went to his knees. 

She smiled. 

His fingers getting nerveless, Merlin dropped the spade. It clanked when it hit the ground.


	21. Chapter 21

Arthur saw Morgana; he saw her go for the Captain, watched as she stabbed a translucent arm in his chest. The Captain wheezed with pain; he went white, circlets forming under his eyes, the skin around his cheeks going taught, drying up like parchment. 

Arthur knew what this was; it was how she killed people. 

He had to do something to stop her; to make sure the Captain survived and she got her peace. But what could he do? He could barely stand. He could probably hold her at bay for a few seconds and then she'd go back to attacking the Captain. Now that she was here they'd never get the job done.

Then he realised there was something he could do. He grabbed the shovel the Captain had let go of and used it to widen the hole in the ground that the Captain had made. In a rush he emptied the sack of bones in the hollow and then told Morgana, “See, we're giving you a fair burial.”

Morgana didn't stop. On the contrary, whatever she was doing made the Captain scream. 

Panic worked its way deep inside Arthur. It made him sweat cold. If he couldn't stop her; if this didn't work out, then the Captain was a dead man. That couldn't be.

He tried again. “Morgana,” he said, covering her bones in earth, “you're going to rest in peace now. Isn't that what you want?”

Turning her head, she looked at him. She was heeding his words. She hadn't let go of the Captain but he had stopped screaming. That had to mean something.

Arthur used the pause to finish covering up the remains. All the while he talked. “You're going to get your dues, Morgana. Your burial place will no longer be a secret. It will no longer be hidden. People will remember you. Put a flower on your grave.”

Morgana stepped away from the Captain, who fell in a panting heap of the ground. 

Holding Morgana's gaze, Arthur riffled the pages of the Bible he'd brought with him and went to the Appendix. Skimming, he found the passage he'd been looking for. “Ideo precor beatam Mariam sepmper virginem, beatum Michelem Archangelum, beautum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos ApostolosPetrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos,” he read out. Latin hardly being his forte, he scarcely knew what he was saying, but he made himself plough on because these were the words of the ritual, the mass for the dead. “Et te, pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum.”

Morgana walked towards him, her evil smile dying on her lips, giving way to an attentive moue.

“Misereatur vestri omnipotens Deus,” Arthur said, aware he was asking for the remission of Morgana's sins and for the granting of everlasting life, “et dimissis peccatis vestris, perducat vos ad vitam aeternam.”

Morgana's expression revealed now an innocent hopefulness he'd never seen shine in her face, a new found naivete. She looked more serene, more at peace. All trace of evil had gone from her features. In her white shift she now looked like an angel. Moonlight crowned her as though she was part of some divine host.

Arthur thought this a good development. Things were finally shaping up. Seeing as how it had been effective, he finished what he started. He crossed himself, thinking the gesture would go well with the ritual. Then he said, Indulgentiam, absolutionem, et remissionem peccatorum nostrorum, tributat nobis omnipotens et misericors Dominus.”

Morgana's image shimmered. She smiled serenely. She was becoming more transparent, more ethereal. As she walked back to her grave, she placed her palm on Merlin's head, who was raking himself up and was currently on his haunches. He gasped, but she didn't seem to have hurt him. When she'd got to the burial site, she turned around. She had a serene air now; currently her face had a composed cast to it. 

She lifted her hand as though in salute and then her form slowly dissolved, undoing itself in the night air.


	22. Chapter 22

By the time they got back to the manor it was dawn; light shining in the east, the horizon turning pink. The stately house was wrapped in stillness; with no lights on, and the glow of the nascent sun bathing it in a burnished cocoon. It no longer gave off a threatening air; with the morning all shadows seemed to have dissolved, and even its front appeared less dilapidated, less forlorn. Getting to it was a strange kind of relief. Merlin had never felt the place was hospitable before. When he'd first come he'd found it an alien location, a forbidden place where he was unwelcome. He'd brushed it all under the carpet, but that aspect had stayed the same. Now all of that was gone. 

As a result of their adventure, Merlin hurt all over. He didn't know what Morgana had done to him when she'd stabbed him in the chest with her arm, but she had awoken pains that still lingered. Even now he could only breathe with difficulty and his heart beat erratically, and felt tender. 

Arthur wasn't too good either. He had taken a beating at the hands of an angry ghost, and had had to rush about at speeds not recommended for a man in his condition. Every step he took, he huffed. It was clear he was trying to hide his discomfort. 

Overall the both of them were a wreck, but they had managed to do what they had set out to. Morgana now rested in peace. She ought to have had more; she should have had a chance at life. But they couldn't change the past and this was the next best thing. It was nothing but her due. Still, Merlin would have to repair all the damage she had wrought; all the fear she had instilled in Merlin's patients. Those who were gone unfortunately wouldn't reap the benefits of the new peace established at Le Fay House, but he would try for the others.

They had reached the ward, when Arthur said, “So, here we are.”

“Yes.” Merlin had never been so thankful to see the unit again. It wasn't a cosy place by any means but now it looked it. “I can accompany you further if you want.”

“No, I, I can be trusted to put myself to bed alone, I think.” Arthur grimaced as though he was starting to feel all his aches and pains.

Merlin knew it was time to go. They had done what they had to. Everything was fine. It was time to get some sleep and recuperate. The battering they had taken at Morgana's help would take a while to heal. But before he went, there was something he wanted to say to Arthur, something he needed to convey. “You were great tonight, Arthur. You saved us all with your prompt thinking and reading out of the ritual.”

Arthur flushed. “Um, thank you, but I only finished what you started.” Barring his leg, which didn't touch the floor, he held himself stiff. “You went down the well. You found her body.” His mouth flattened in an expression of discontent. “ I couldn't have done it myself. Without you, Captain, we would have been lost.”

“I did little.” Merlin was aware of that. They all owed their life to Arthur. He was a quite heroic soldier. He may not have won the day on the field of battle, but he had saved quite a bunch of lives here at the hospital. “And besides it was my duty.”

“I don't see how it wasn't mine,” Arthur said. “My fellow soldiers were dying. Ranulf... He was getting to be a friend.”

“We'll mourn them properly.” Merlin would think about how to do that on the morning. “For now we just need to recuperate a little, sleep it off.”

The nod suppressing a yawn, Arthur nodded. “Good night then.”

Almost not wanting to leave, Merlin said, “Good night.” Arthur was almost deep in the ward, when he turned around and added, “And thank you.”

Arthur smiled and the smile etched a notch on Merlin's heart.


	23. Chapter 23

Merlin couldn't manage to sleep in; he had been in bed about an hour when Nurse Sefa came screaming into his garret room. Still wrapped in the cobwebs of slumber, Merlin had momentarily forgotten about the night before, their putting to rest of Morgana, and for a moment he feared she had struck again. Then he remembered their adventure in the churchyard and his mind eased a little. She couldn't have caused another victim; she was now resting in peace. Then apprehension hit again. What if their solution hadn't been definitive? What if giving Morgana a fair burial hadn't worked and she was still prowling the premises?

Fear dried his throat and his heart constricted in his chest. Dreading Morgana's return was futile however. He had to make sure that such was the case and he couldn't do that if he didn't question the nurse first. “What's the matter, Sefa?”

“The General,” she said, “he's dead in his room.”

Merlin's fear changed into downright panic. Did they have a new death on their hands? He charged into the General's room with a heart full of worry. His gaze lighted on the corpse immediately; it couldn't have been drawn to anything other than that, for the General lay in a pool of blood. Merlin went to him, kneeling at his side. The corpse was already stiff and cold. It meant it had been there awhile. Merlin relaxed. The General's death must have occurred before they buried Morgana. He wasn't a pathologist, but he could tell as much. 

With a sigh he closed the General's eyes. It was the last thing he could do for him, a small service to perform. He'd learnt the hard way that you honoured the dead if you didn't want trouble. Standing, he said, “We'll report this to the proper authorities.”

Here at Le Fay House, Merlin was the next in the line of command. With the General forever out of commission, and no replacement in sight, Merlin took over the running of the hospital in all its functions, administrative, as well as medical.

The next few weeks were hard on him. Merlin had never had as much responsibility before. He learnt how important the logistical aspects of running a convalescent home were; he got a notion of how hard men and staff were to direct. But the difficulties he faced paled compared to what he'd gone through when he'd come head to head with Morgana.

Once a week now he went to the cemetery and sought out Morgana's secret grave. He laid flowers on it; he left trifles for her. He felt he was doing what her family would have done, had they known about her fate. He thought it was just a fraction of what was her due.

But he couldn't spend all his time with the dead; he had to look after the living. With Morgana gone, the death rate among his patients plunged. While he still lost some, the majority survived. Arthur in particular seemed to be doing so well. His bones were knitting together, his leg was much less fragile, and he could now put some weight on it. No signs of infection were evident. All in all Arthur's prognosis got better and better every time Merlin looked in on him.

Merlin did so quite frequently. Partly it was because he wanted to make sure that their adventure had had no adverse effects on Arthur; partly because Merlin was drawn to the man. He was a patient and Merlin should not admit as much even to himself, but there it was. Arthur was courageous, resourceful, clever, and resilient. He was a fine man; and Merlin couldn't stop himself from seeing that. But he could stop himself from acting on it. Barring his seeing him on his rounds – which happened more frequently than it ought, Merlin never caught a glimpse of Arthur.

As a result, he could read the light of disappointment in Arthur's eyes; he knew Arthur's smile fell whenever Merlin didn't follow up his enquiries after Arthur's health with anything more personal. They'd skirted closer than this before. But Merlin couldn't allow himself more. He couldn't give in to his feelings; he couldn't let go.

He was the superior officer. That had to mean something. Giving up was hard; but at least it was the right thing to do. He had that consolation.

He stiffened his resolve so as not to make more of their relationship. He made himself into a bureaucrat, cut himself off from others. He tried to do so in a way that would still keep him grounded though.

He had had the option to change rooms and move into the late General's but something had stopped him. He wanted to stay the same as he'd ever been and that included staying put. Everyone knew where to find him, of course, and he now ran things, so all visits were expected. When someone knocked, he wasn't startled. “Come in,” he called.

Arthur entered. He had only one crutch now instead of two and looked much steadier on his legs. “I..., um, wanted to speak to you.”

Merlin turned around, “Arthur.” Surprise was in his voice. He thought he had put some distance between them. 

“You're not there for me anymore.” Arthur swallowed. “I can cope with that. But I'd hoped you would be.”

Merlin knew he'd been remiss. As a patient Arthur had needed him and Merlin had been absent. He'd done it out of a wish for self-preservation, so he could continue respecting rules. But that had been just as wrong as flaunting codes of conduct. “I'm sorry. Is there anything I can--”

The kiss was unexpected. It came out of nowhere, but wasn't unwelcome. Merlin had a moment to decide whether to stop himself from partaking of it or to indulge in it. He knew the pros and cons. But he didn't think much; he reacted out of instinct. 

He inhaled Arthur's scent, felt the warmth of his body. It didn't take much to make him brim over with want. He lifted his hand to palm Arthur's face, while Arthur's tongue swiped across his lips. 

He had made no plans for this; he hadn't imagined a future wherein this was possible, but it was perfect; it was a match to his needs.

Letting himself go, he drew Arthur closer. The notion that it was wrong, that he was using a subordinate did flit through his mind, but he couldn't let himself act on it. He couldn't put a stop to it. 

Arthur, for his part, didn't seem to want desist. Dropping his crutch, he flattened Merlin against the nearest wall wall, and put his mouth to his neck, where Merlin's uniform shirt was open. Merlin closed his eyes. The sensation was sublime. It made his spine melt and his insides somersault and warm. His blood raced faster, especially when Arthur's body covered his, matching him angle for angle. 

“I didn't come here to do this.” Arthur's lips moved against Merlin's skin. His voice was low and raw. “I wanted to explain. But I cannot deny myself, Captain.”

“Merlin,” Merlin said. “Say 'Merlin'.”

Arthur fiddled with the zip of Merlin's uniform trousers, lowered it, took firm hold of Merlin's cock. As he threw it back, Merlin struck his head against the wall. He braced hard, his hand around Arthur's forearm. When Arthur ran his thumb around the crown, Merlin let out a noise he couldn't have bit off had he wanted to. 

They came closer together and then kissed slackly and open-mouthedly as Arthur lay his hand on him.

 

“I can't help myself,” Arthur said. 

“Neither can I.” Merlin went for honesty. He could lie; tell Arthur that he didn't want this, play to the script he ought to act by, that of the scrupulous officer. But he couldn't. “Just can't.”

“I waited to be fit enough to do this.” Arthur nosed under Merlin's ear. “I couldn't wait to be fully healed though.”

As he rubbed Merlin's cock, Arthur kissed his throat, finding the soft spots, the ridge of his Adam's apple, the scruff that came in the evening, so many hours after shaving. He sucked some of the flesh in his mouth, nibbling on it, soothing it with his tongue.

Merlin's breath was laboured, rusty. His hips thrust forward; his heart raced. He came with a soft gasp, full of startled surprise at the rising pleasure. As Merlin stopped panting, Arthur soothed him, his mouth soft on the side of Merlin's throat.

Merlin would have none of it. Undoing belt and zip, he took out Arthur's cock. By rule of thumb he went with what he liked himself, stripping him in deft fast moves that left no room for breathing, for anything other than the workings of sensation. 

Arthur clutched at his shoulders, said, “I wasn't-- I wasn't expecting anything in return.” 

Merlin believed Arthur. He was simply that nice and honourable. He had just come here with the intent of doing something for Merlin. “I want to.”

Merlin touched him, coaxed him with kisses to the face and neck, to the mouth. When Arthur came the kiss broke, scattering into nothingness, Merlin still tasting his breath. 

When Arthur was decidedly done, Merlin tucked him away and nuzzled his face, his own trousers hanging low on his hips. “Thank you.”

Arthur looked up. “Does this mean it can happen again?”

Merlin should say no. They were soldiers. It was a risk. It was a violation of rules. But he nodded. If there was one thing his experience at Le Fay House had taught him, it was that you only lived your life once, and that you did with it what you did with it. There was no going back and redoing what what went wrong once the end had come. That way came frustration and unhappiness, an unholy mix for the soul. No, the soul needed to be nourished. That had been proven to him. “Yes,” he said, newly rich with this wisdom that Morgana taught him. “Yes.”

 

The End


End file.
